Those Who Came Before Book One: First Adventures
by Jeremy
Summary: Set 30 years before the Slayers, this is the story of their parents, their lives, adventures, and the horrors from which they saved the World. The twists begin! COMPLETED!
1. Prologue

Those Who Came Before  
Prologue  
  
  
On one side of the gate stood a field of trees and flowers, carefully tended by subtle magic from the gardeners and the people. A large, paved way, free of any crack or overgrowth lanced in the midst of the powerful scene of beauty, receding into the background, where dwellings and the top ends of twisted - yet oh so beautiful - towers doggedly broke the treeline. All around that place, a feeling of eternal peace and calm filled the air and sank into the ground, bringing in a sense of quietness and contentment which almost seemed to chant its glory.  
  
On the other side of the gate stood trees, and some flowers, but there was no ordered feel to them. Strong maples, proud pines and sturdy oaks stood in their multitudes, in the utter disarray in which nature had left them, surrounded by shrubs and the inevitable wildflowers and wild mushrooms. A damp air was wafting through, carrying no sense of peace but rather a restlessness, a feeling that peace could never be achieved, that the people living there would never truly wish for it. There was no glory here, only a waiting for ever-changing tidings.  
  
On one side of the portal was Mipross, home of the elves, where Loerik Gabriev had lived the eighteen years of his life. On the other was the Empire of Elmekia, a land at war, where his decision had banished him.  
  
If the bitterness of it all hadn't been wringing his heart until he was nearly blind from it, he would have cried incessantly.  
  
People were there with him, on this last day, the day were he would embrace his choice. Precious few - his decision to choose his human blood and become fully human at the time of choice had deprived him of friends he had known since childhood. Elven maidens who had once tittered and winked at him enticingly now turned cold gazes on him, teachers no longer knew him as anything but a stranger, and even...even one of his family, his own brother, had refused to see him go. Only three had come.  
  
His father, Rowdy, was there of course, his blue hair now laced with grey, his small but well-built frame barely coming to his son's abdomen. Another thing to be bitter about. Where all the children in the family had been born small with blond hair, he had become tall, even for most humans, with hair as black as a raven. Only his blue eyes mirrored his parents', although his were wounded and bitter, while theirs were grieving.   
His mother was also there, pale, slight and kind Mellyroon, crying her heart out for all of them, her elven features, so pure and beautiful marred by a deep sense of loss and sadness. And toddling next to her, confused and saddened by what she felt, was the youngest of the family, little Varlya. His chest contracted painfully as a lump formed in his throat, and he tried to push it away, but before pride reasserted itself, a sob tore through his athletic frame. It didn't escape his parents' notice.  
  
Rowdy bowed his head for a moment and blinked quickly. "I never imagined...that they...that all of this would happen." That was an understatement, for Rowdy had argued with the elven council against the banishment, but even his status as hero amongst the elves - which was why he had been accepted where no other human had ever been - hadn't been enough to sway the elders. And so the eyes of the father held a sense of defeat, and he didn't quite meet his son's eyes. "I never thought I'd have to see one of my children go this way."  
  
"Banishment!" Mellyroon wept. "What cruelty! How could they make that decision? How could they?!?" Varlya only sniffled in obvious discomfort and befuddlement. Rowdy put a comforting arm around his love's shoulders, but he seemed to be sayinmg the same thing.  
  
"The Elders' decision is final, mother." Loerik stated softly. Surprisingly he did not sound angry, or bitter. He sounded casual. Those feelings were for his own heart only. "I can only obey them now."  
  
Mellyroon shook herself from her husband's grasp, and looked up at her son in something which almost seemed anger. "I won't stand for that! I...I won't! You'll have your place, with your family!"  
  
"We'll do all we can, son." Rowdy added in determination.  
  
Loerik felt his chest tighten again, but kept a tight rein on them. "Father, mother, please. Its too late..."  
  
"We'll see about that, boy! You just wait and see." he sighed "Besides, its where you belong."  
  
"My place belongs with the humans now, not the elves!" the tall young man bellowed, is anger breaking through a moment. Varlya gave a wail, and he immediately felt ashamed of himself. But he didn't apologize, even when Mellyroon started to soothe the little girl. He knew what he said was right. And his father knew it too. "You wouldn't have given me the Sword of Light if you hadn't thought I'd be gone long."  
  
His father flinched, and his gaze inadvertently darted to the large sword secured in a elven-made scabbard. The sword which had been in the Gabriev family since the first of the line had received it and used it to help turn the tide against the mazoku in the War of Resurrection. It was this sword which had enabled Rowdy's own father to save the city of Sairaag from the Great Beast Zannafar. It was this sword which had made his father a hero, and enabled Loerik's very existence.  
  
Rowdy looked at his son with sad blue eyes. "It seemed appropriate. That sword is one of the greatest weapons of war known, it has no place on Mipross. And the blade was always passed from father to the most skilled son, and you, my son, are a magnificent swordsman, one of the very best." his voice quavered. "Ceipheed knows how I'll miss you."  
  
"We all will. Even your brother Tulin will." Mellyroon added, tears once again streaming down her eyes. Loerik stiffened at the name. Not now. Not yet. The wound was too fresh, the rage too great. That would take a long time to heal...if it ever did. His mother's pretty face tightened. "And we won't give up. You'll be with us again, Loerik. We won't stop until that cruel banishment is lifted." she looked at her husband, and he nodded firmly in response.  
  
The young warrior smiled at his parents sadly, hiding the hopelessness he felt. "Well then, until next we meet, then, I'll do my best here."  
  
They embraced, he and his father clasping forearms in a grip which belied the seeming dry tone of the exchange. That and their eyes, of course, which told what a thousand words couldn't. His mother nearly throttled him as she hugged his neck, and she whispered that she loved him, and never to give up, never to give in. He wouldn't. If only for those three, he wouldn't. No matter what the human world had in store for him.  
  
No matter what he had to do.  
  
He crouched at last to the toddling Varlya, fixing his eyes on her tenderly. She was chubby and innocent-looking, her eyes wide and distressed, knowing something was up but not able to truly understand what was going on. He had to force himself not to grimace. Varlya would grow up to understand that her brother rejected the elven way of life, no matter what he knew his parents would try to minimize that fact. He wouldn't be there to take care of, he wouldn't see her play. Not for a long time. Maybe never. Damn the elves! Damn him and damn the whole universe!  
  
He rustled his sister's hair fondly for a moment, then spoke to her gently. "Varlya, I have to be going now. Take good care of mother and father until I come back. If I ever do, he finished bitterly.  
  
Blue eyes blinked "Where are ya going, Lorik?" her tiny voice asked, mispronouncing his name as usual.  
  
"Just on a very big adventure. I'll be back one day, you just wait, okay?" he sincerely hope his smile seemed relaxed. It appeared it was, as she nodded with vigor, and hugged him as if he was only going for a few days. Ignorance could be such a bliss sometimes.  
  
Other words were exchanged, but the meeting had said all that was to be said. After one last hug from his mother and a fond pat on the shoulder from his father, he watched them cross to the portal, which started closing almost immediately. As the magic collapsed, his father strechtched out a hand towards him, and said "You're the Swordsman of Light! Remember that! And remember that whatever happens, we will always love you!" And with that, the portal collapsed, shutting him out of the elven world, possibly forever.  
  
"I'll remember, father." Loerik said softly. "I'll..." he choked, his vision blurring as tears sprang unbidden into his eyes. He didn't fight them, didn't fight the sobs and the despair which was tearing at his soul anew. He was alone. His pride no longer had any say.  
  
And for long moments after, the woods of Elmekia resounded with the wails of a young man who was alone, bereft, and in pain.  
  
* * *  
  
Him? You say he is of importance? He is weak, his will is shattered by the present events! He is nothing!  
  
But he will be. I have foreseen it. Greatness as well as pain await him, sadness and love, death and life. He will be tempered by it. And events will unfold that will help the World of Man remain free.  
  
You speak in riddles, old friend.  
  
Only the truth as it will be. I know what I have glimpsed.  
  
And what are these great things this pitiful child could do?   
  
You shall see. Others will join him. One, in particular, will bear watching.  
  
Whom?  
  
This one, my friend, this one...  
  
* * *  
  
So Oerlus the Silent, saddened by the reckless use of the Black Arts and wary of the expediency of the Shamanistic powers, worked to learn the secrets of Ceipheed and the Golden Dragons. Although it was proven that humankind...that humankind...that humankind possessed some powers of healing, it wasn't until Oerlus met and sealed a pact with Merrizzialis the Dragon Lady, that White Magic as we know...White...White... Magic...as...we... ... ...  
  
"HALLIA."  
  
The sharp words cut through the rapidly dimming mind of Hallia Servales, young Shrine Maiden of the Dragon-God, and had the effect of a full bucket of full water. Although decisively pretty, with a fine, slightly rounded face, a well-developed body that belied her fifteen winters and which wasn't hidden by the priestly robes she wore, her reaction was far less than dignified. She gasped, her large blue eyes widened even more than it should have been human to do, and her dark green hair seemed to stand on air as she looked about at the varying reactions of the other apprentices in her class and blushed bright red.  
  
Mother Lobilia, the priestess who had taught her and the others on magic and the history of magic, pinced her tin lips together and glared, arms crossed, foot slightly tapping. She looked the image of a thunderstorm about to break. Although a powerful priestess and one possessing great wisdom and knowledge, there was one thing the older woman never, ever tolerated: laziness in her classroom.   
  
"Hallia, dear girl," she started with a deceptively mild voice which sent everyone - and the newly awakened Hallia especially - on edge "If you are so wise and intelligent that the learning of the history of White Magic is of no import to you, then, by all means, leave this class and go play with the flowers outside, take a nap, as long as it isn't in MY classroom." the last was said with an ever-rising voice, and the green-haired teenager cringed.  
  
"Forgive me, mistress, it was a mishap. I..."  
  
"A mishap indeed." was the sharp cut in her fumbling apologies "If you need to stay awake, then read us the entire chapter on Oerlus, and make it a lively one!"  
  
The young maiden almost sighed but checked herself quickly : the chapter on Oerlus the Sage was, without a doubt, long and especially dull, but she knew she had no choice but to obey. She was a learner of the way of the church, and Lobilia was one of the mistresses. What she heard was what she had to do, and that was that. 'Besides', she thought glumly, glimpsing the faintly pleased faces of the others in the class 'Anything to keep those jealous wolves at bay.' So she stood up, and, with a clear voice, recited the story of Oerlus and the Creation of White Magic.  
  
She didn't stumble once, her voice never cracked, and to the disgust of other classmates, her being seemed to be as calm as a gentle sea breeze. She didn't feel that way one bit, yet it allowed Mistress Lobilia's stern features to soften somewhat, and the nod she offered her at the end of the recitation, although sharp, was genuine.  
  
Hallia resisted the urge to shoot a triumphant look at those who had leered and eagerly waited her humiliating fumble, knowing it would only fuel the fires of wantom, reckless jealousy. She didn't entirely blame them, either. Although she had heard that others were even greater, here, in the small city of Asposa, she was the fastest learner. At barely fifteen years of age, she was close to becoming a proper Shrine Maiden, a Priestess of Ceipheed. Already she had learned many spells of the white magic sphere and had studied some with some shamans. She had found that her strength resided mainly in air shamanism, but what she had acquired, she knew, would be invaluable. Even though the fear of being questioned while unready again was quite present, her mind couldn't help but flit back to more recent, somber events.  
  
It had been only three months ago that the Empire of Elmekia, the powerful northern neighbor of Lumeria, her land of birth, had declared war on them. There had been no gauntlet thrown, no insults given. One day the borders were peaceful and clear of all but a few lazy outpost and some peddlers, and next they knew a large, well-armed strike force had crossed over, burning many villages and forts along the border and marching ever southward. The High Priest once told her the King had been caught unawares, and that he had cause for it. After all, Elmekia had been in a fruitless, long-running conflict with magical Zeffilia almost since the human realms arose after the War of Resurrection. However, he had said, they should have been prepared: Elmekians were ever greedy.  
  
What had NOT been expected was the lack of reactions from the other realms which touched their borders. The Alliance of Coastal States had sent their ambassador packing, Queen Uliana VI of Zefilia had told them in no uncertain terms that she was concerned only about her own country, and the Duke of Kalmaart hadn't even deigned see the ambassador about the matters of the new Lumeria-Elmekia War. The worst blow, however, had come from Sailune. Wealthy, with a large standing army and high-level white sorcery which made it the strongest nation on the Continent, it could have forced the Elmekians to lay back and negotiate. But even though King Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune had showed dismay over the situation, he refused to act on behalf of either side. This show of neutrality put Lumeria alone against a much more powerful foe.  
  
Armies had thus been gathered, youths conscripted, battalions sent. Including her father and brother, an older man and another barely old enough to hold a sword. They had gone to help the Kingdom prevail against their foe, leaving her alone, sending her their pay to help her get through her religious schooling.  
  
How she missed them both! How very cruelly she did! But she wouldn't have to wait much longer. As soon as she passed the Clerical Rites, she would find a way to be assigned to the clerics who fought and took care of the wounded on the front lines. Her father would be angry, her brother appalled, and both would certainly resent seeing her on a field of battle. And she wouldn't care.  
  
They were family. Beside her faith in Ceipheed, little counted to her but them.  
  
And that was why she would go to fight the war just as they did. To be with them, and never leave.  
  
* * *  
  
Ridiculous. A Shrine Maiden? HA! Oh, she has a good deal of magical potential in her, but to trust her to bring about great events...  
  
She will, she will. There is no doubt in my mind. When you look at her, what do you see.  
  
A child who has no real faith in the Gods. Her powers will fail her one day.  
  
Truth. But what I see is someone who hasn't yet been able to find something to truly draw power from. Once she does, she will be powerful in magic and in spirit.  
  
A new Rezo? I cannot believe it.  
  
Not someone as powerful, but what she lacks in power, she will make up with a goodness the Red Priest hasn't known for many years. She and the young man are linked, and I see others linked to them. Truly, this could be something of proportions.  
  
And how will those events unfold?  
  
Now, now. Where would the expectations be if I told you that, my friend?  
  
____________ 


	2. Chapter One

Those Who Came Before  
Chapter 1  
  
'Mercenary work? Yeah, you can easily get into mercenary bands, son. Especially with a war on. But I'll warn you, and you better listen: Don't lose sight of yourself!!! I almost did....'  
  
Loerik Gabriev talking to his 15-year old son Gourry  
  
  
Swearing, rustling of swords, the icy, stringenly grating sound of sharpening, the many loud voices of men together mixed with the soft or coarse odors of cooking and made so that a traveller would know a large camp was there from five miles off. Not that any traveller would have gone towards the sounds, once they had heard them. Instead, most would have run the other way, thinking of death and pillage and bandits.  
  
But it wasn't a bandit gang which loudly celebrated a rich steal, but a very large band of mercenaries rejoicing at joining a large-scale offensive in the days to come.  
  
"I've told ye, I've told ye boys and I'll keep tellin', but that damn Lumeria and that damn Elmekia fighting each other sure is good fer business!" Said the leader of that gang. He was a tall, built man who had scars just about everywhere he could have one, short hair heavily mingled with the grey of age, and a set, granite face. Only the stern face was relaxed into a grin tonight as he took stock of their situation as it had been for the last three years, and what it would be again in the days to come. Seated around him, sharing a meal of roasted pig and vegetable stew in the tent which served as a sort of mess for the main warriors of the large group, the people cheered at that, giving their wholehearted agreement to the concept.  
  
All except once, that was.  
  
The mercenary leader frowned. "Hey, Gabriev! Cat got yer tongue? Stop eating that leg and talk with us a bit."  
  
Stacked between two other mercenaries, the man called Gabriev so unceremoniously didn't twitch, but rather continued shovelling meat and vegetable stew into his mouth. Already bones from two pig legs lay in front of him, and the older mercenary knew that he was at his third large helping of stew. Having watched the disconcerting display of ingurgitation, he also knew that it wouldn't stop for a while yet, and that if he didn't make himself clearer, the eating festival would go on with him forgotten.  
  
"GABRIEV!"  
  
The head of the subordinate snapped up in surprise and confusion, in the middle of a mouthful of roast. Dark-haired, his face untouched by the three years of conflict he had taken part, Loerik Gabriev chewed and talked all the while. "Whut? Whasha wan', shkip?" he askedm his words distorted.  
  
More than one mercenary bristled at the surname Gabriev gave his leader. The older mercenary was very known in Elmekia, a veteran of many border skirmishes and two full-blown wars against Zefilia itself. That was the kind of track record which earned respect amongst all who wielded a sword. That Gabriev would call him so disrespectfully was outrageous to the mercenary mind set.  
  
However, no one said a word about it, not even the leader. For although he was young, younger than anyone else in the room, there was one thing in which Gabriev outshone them all: swordsmanship. In three years, he had gone to good to the skill level worth of the best sword masters. So no one wanted to pick a fight with the young, sad-eyed, hungry swordsman. Not even the respected mercenary leader.  
  
So all the man did was repeat his question, and there was true curiosity in his tone. After all, even after nearly three years with him, the young virtuoso of the sword was private, quiet and solemn, rarely giving his opinion about anything.  
  
This time was no different, as Loerik swallowed his mouthful of food and contemplated the remains of his little feast with a non-equivocal expression. "Its well-paid work." he said at length "But even though its what permits me to live my life, sometimes I still wonder..."  
  
"Wonder whut, chap?" another mercenary, a small but brawny man named Gulthas asked when moments of silence had passed.  
  
"Oh! Sorry, I was thinking about...nevermind. The thing about the attack on Lumeria? Well, it seems to me that we're going to take part in an overkill battle, to scare the Lumerians."  
  
The mercenary leader guffawed. "You think too much or too little, Gabriev - I dunno which yet! Who cares if we scare the Lumerians or not? I'm asking you how long you think these cowards'll stand against true mercs like us, boy!"  
  
"They don't stand a chance. They never did." was the quiet, somber reply. One almost had to wonder which side the black-haired master swordsman stood in.  
  
Still, even to an old mercenary after his pleasures and money, he could tell that Loerik talked about the Lumerians never having a chance in general in the entire war. That was as true as crystal water, Ceipheed be the witness to it! If the Empire had decided to make war against Sailune, it would have been a huge, prolonged conflict, as the Kingdom of Sailune had a large army, a booming and loyal population and a lot of gold to spend. It was easily a match for Elmekia. Lumeria, however, wasn't. Its armies lacked manpower and quality, and although they fought fanatically, they had never scored one decisive victory against their attackers. After three years, already half of the Kingdom's territory was captured, and within a month, maybe two, they would capture the capital and force a complete surrender - and certainly annexation to the Empire. It was sad, if one thought of the suffering of the lumerian people.  
  
But the old leader didn't think that way. What he knew was that, during a war, mercenaries could do pretty much what they wanted with enemy spoils - whether riches or women. And he had had his share of both during the three years, and so had all the others around him.  
  
Again, except Loerik. The man refused most of his share of the spoils and had never slept with the slaves he had been offered. Maybe it was a sort of quaint gentleman honor? He certainly seemed the type to entertain something like this. However, it didn't matter, as long as the youth did his job as efficiently as he always did. If he started to go lax, then, well...  
  
"Shabranigdu take you, Gabriev, I jus' can't understand ya." Kalarus, the best swordsman in the camp - that, officially, many thought Loerik to actually be even better, his youth notwithstanding - told in a scornful voice. Like most at the table, he sometimes found the young mercenary's way galling. And he was the only one, with the leader himself, to tell of it. From time to time. "Ya know we're goin' to get a big bonus with this battle - heck, the Emperor has promised us all two hundred gold more than usual. Think of the things ya can do with two hundred gold."  
  
"Man, I could name a few things..." said another man, and people laughed at the suggesting tone. Even Loerik's mouth smiled, if his eyes didn't. Kalarus laughed harder than most, fingering the scar which ran from his cheek across his mouth. No one knew who had managed to do this to him. The scar was old, and he always fingered it whenever someone talked of women.  
  
"That especially, aye!" his grin turned malicious "Although its nothin' compared to what ya can do with one of our lil morsels here, I swear. Got that swordswoman yesterday, yé no, the mouthy curly one? Well, I tell ya, she won't be too mouthy tonight. Took care of her, I tell ya!"  
  
He laughed hard again, and was followed only by hesitant laughs and chuckles. The nastiness the scarred swordsman visited upon their female 'slaves' was infamous, and it put many ill at ease. The leader him self felt a little queasy. Not about the violence and the defilement - they were slaves, after all - but the sheer glee that was taken at it.  
  
The laughter continued for a long while, and he saw faces start to change. Some were starting to share the humor, some were turning pale from badly-hidden fright, and a few were irritated at all the noise interrupting the dinner. Loerik Gabriev said nothing, only looked at the laughing man with dark eyes, his mouth curled in a for of disgusted bewilderment, and words came out muttering of his mouth.  
  
"La-hailk, she ujar flagaras bahle..." was what the leader caught. It was told in a language which certainly wasn't mercenary speech, or human common. The intonation was richer, more... melodious. He didn't have time to consider much of it, for the tall young man rose stiffly. "Excuse me. Not hungry anymore."  
  
Kalarus was still chuckling to himself, his eyes lighted by images and memories the old veteran wasn't sure he wanted to see. He shook his head, then called to Gabriev once more. "Boy, you still haven't answered me! What about the battle soon?"  
  
The dark-haired man paused by the tent flap. "We will massacre them. That's all I've left to say on it, and that's already too much. At least to me. Good sup." he said stonily.  
  
And then he was gone. 'He's good, damned good.' the leader mused 'But for some reason, he's never fitted here, and I think he never will.'  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
"Where is that nonchalant, cocky flaming KID?!? I asked him over three HOURS ago, for Gods' sake!" Bellowed a middle-aged man in the reds, blacks and blues of a high-level sorcerer, with a gold-trimmed black cape thrown around his shoulders for good measure. He was named Lemaran Gladelight, and he wasn't used to waiting for one not even half his age to show himself in his office!  
  
Berrel, his assistant, quailed slightly from the tone, knowing his master well enough when he was in his black moods. His voice, however, remained business-like "Marcus Jaderam has told our messengers that he was in the middle of a very straining and costly experiment, and that he couldn't..."  
  
"I don't want to know whether the irresponsible fool is making a new spell, flirting with the High Priestess of Atlas City, or finding a better place to pee!" the older magi bellowed, banging his fist on the elaborate and fine maple wood of his desk. "You go there, and tell Marcus that if he's not here by the next five minutes-"  
  
"Don't have an aneurysm, old man. I'm here." came a young, confident - and amused - male voice through the door. Berrel, Lemaran noted, nearly fainted from relief. He, however, had no patience left to apologize or try to make himself look less angry. He slammed his hand on his desk again.  
  
"Berrel, out. Marcus in. Close the door, sit, and EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" he growled, his tone rising.  
  
Marcus entered as his assistant fled while trying to maintain his dignity. The young sorceror, barely nineteen, wasn't very tall, but was impressive his posture and bearing. Red hair and eyes glittered on a slightly tanned face whose mouth always seemed upturned in mischief. He was dressed only in a blue tunic and breeches, with an expensive-looking belt and the usual black sorceror's cloak the only indications that he was a full-fledged spellcaster instead of an apprentice. His face looked happy about something, and Lemaran had to remind himself that the man was no child.  
  
Taken in by the Sorceror's Guild of Atlas City on the insistance of a respected - if rumored to be whacked - archmage called Jillen Neverbreak, the boy had been at fifteen deemed too old to learn to be a sorcerer. However, the youth had progressed at a rate never before seen in the annals of the Guild. In two years, he had become a sorceror, something which should have taken more than a decade to anyone else. He was growing in power quickly still, and today his magic was rumored to be nearly as great as Lemaran's. This only rankled the elder mage more.  
  
But he took a more conciliatory tone, however, as Marcus lazily slumped on the chair in front of the desk, looking at the magical tomes and artifacts around the room. "I'll go straight to the point, Marcus..." he began.  
  
"Good. Then we won't waste time on this foolishness." the red-haired sorcerer mused idly, still not looking at him.   
  
Damn the boy's impudence. It had been there from the first, but the young man had grown into the trait until it became a part of him, emboldened by the undeniable fact that he had, in a few short years, reached and far outranked the rest of the students his age, and become one of the youngest to become a full sorcerer. It was supposed to be an honor, but the young brat had let that go to his head! It took Lemaran a good moment of mental repose to continue without showing his disgust over the younger man's unruly attitude.  
  
"Well, I suppose a man as bright as you has heard of the Lumerian-Elmekian conflict?" he said. Damn. It still sounded contemptuous. Worse, it was a redundant, stupid sentence, and Marcus caught to it immediately, laughing softly, his tone that of badly-disguised mockery.  
  
"Who HASN'T heard about the damn thing, you old man?" he said with a calm face which had a mouth still quivering with mirth "Its been in and out of conversations around the guilds, the nobility, politica and anything that can walk and talk for the last three years. So, yes, Lemaran, I admit to have heard it."  
  
"Good. I never doubted it." the older sorcerer slipped smoothly to cover his little verbal bruise. The young one nodded and smiled almost indulgently. Impudence. Vanity and impudence. "We want you to go to Lumeria."  
  
Marcus' smile thinned. "I assume its not to join the sorcerers there. I may have said that I didn't like what was happening to Lumeria, but I know better than to join the side which is sure to lose in times no longer much-removed."  
  
"Of course not." 'Although I might like the idea of you getting your arrogance set down a few notches.' he mused silently "A mage of great importance has told Guildmistress Hizerna that the Lumerians are getting desperate, and a band of Lumerian-born sorcerer are dabbling with things beyond their knowledge. That mage is uncertain of it, but he felt it might be related to the Forbidden Lore."  
  
He watched as the young man's eyes narrowed a bit in surprise and consternation, and tried to enjoy the lapse in the facade. However he couldn't, for the Forbidden Lore made him queasy.  
  
Little was known about the Forbidden Lore, and the secrets contained with it. Fragments of records deciphered told that the powers of Ceipheed and the Dragon Kings had been used to create powerful artifacts, and that the Mazoku had reciprocated in kind. The artifacts had been used during the War of Resurrection, and it was said, had torn apart the lands, forcing the erection of the Mazoku Barrier to protect this side of the world from most of the damage of the war. Only a few elements had cropped up during the centuries...the Cazzalin Bracelet wielded by the Queens of Zephilia, granting enormous magical powers; the White Crown of Sailune, which was rumored to keep the wearer from Mazoku harm and strengthened white magic in the city; The Soul Mirror of Abram, the Sword of Light, and a few more. All had been examples. All had great powers. But the Forbidden Lores were said to have had even more powerful artifacts, things as powerful - and darker - than even the Philosopher Stone itself!  
  
The frightening implications obviously occurred to the younger man, as his reaction was swift and furious. "Then why send one man? Lets gather our forces and strike before they do something foolish."  
  
Lemaran shook his head. "We cannot. We have no certainty. Even the one who told us of this peril couldn't tell if it was real or not."  
  
"Who is that person, anyway?" was the calm demand.  
  
The older mage smirked. "One whom even you would not dare to call an 'old man': Rezo the Red Priest." He watched the young man blink stupidly for a moment, and was rewarded with the speechless look following the declaration. Gods, so young, so powerful, but so damn arrogant! This mission was exactly what was needed for the impertinent youth.  
  
"Rezo the Red Priest asked us to investigate this? I suppose I'm honored to undertake a task for that particular old man," a grin lit his face again, and the arrogance returned fully to his face "however, I'd like to know what I'll get for it. You know, what reward."  
  
Ah, he had almost forgotten the second point in which Jaderam won full honors - greed. If there was something gleaming at the end of the tunnel - gold, gems, precious artifacts - the youth could and had pulled off some of the most dangerous adventures and missions. However, if nothing was there in the end, the man was bound to do nothing at all! Lemaran grunted unhappily, then coughed.  
  
"The Guild has decided to give you four thousand in gold if you -"  
  
"Six. Not one gold piece less. That's my price." Marcus said with a greedy smile. The old mage exploded.  
  
"You pup! Six thousand gold pieces! How dare you set your prices!"  
  
A quick of red eyebrows and a widening smile answered him. And Lemaran knew that Marcus had gone to the same conclusion as the Guild Elders had: they needed someone young and strong, and he was the only one of that category with the power and wits to investigate something like the Forbidden Lores. A growl rose in the old mage's throat, then he glared at the bookshelves lining the walls.   
  
"Six thousand, Marcus." he spat at last "But you'd better come back with the goods with THAT price!" he warned, shaking his finger. The younger mage stood up and leaned towards him with a self-confident smile, eyes twinkling.  
  
"When have I ever disappointed you, old man?" he said in a falsetto voice.  
  
"Agh...just get out of my sight!" he growled, suddenly thinking that a few flare arrows might help the youth get in line. "And just make sure you don't do something foolish out there in Lumeria!"  
  
Cold swaggering was present as Marcus strode away from him and out of the room. "Now, old man, when have I ever done something like that?" he said prettily.  
  
As the door closed, Lemaran sighed, put his face in his hands and stated an ardent wish.   
  
"Ceipheed, I beg of you! Don't let him have children! One's enough for the world!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Come on, lads! They're breaking!"  
  
"Show them your skills, you gutless dogs!  
  
"Attack! No mercy!"  
  
Attack. Attack. That was all he had heard since the beginning of the battle, a battle he took no joy in participating in. But he was Loerik Gabriev, he knew that his greatest talent amongst all others he had or ever might have was to fight with a blade. He had been taught by the best, a man whose father was the hero of his day, the great Swordsman of Light. So he did what he did best. He wielded his sword.  
  
And killed.  
  
His mercenary band, along with three large others, had been ordered to attack the flank of the beleaguered Lumerian Army, something they did to ruthless and quite depressing effect. Already overwhelmed by the better-armed and greater-numbered ranks of the Elmekians, the enemy never had the time to mount any kind of good defense for the fierce onslaught which befell them. Loerik and others had broken through the first few ranks like hot iron against ice. Valiant men had faced him, attempting to defend the army, but none had had the skill necessary to stand up to him. He tried to wound instead of killing, but sometimes, the former was impossible, the latter inevitable.  
  
Consequently, the ache which had been steadily growing, was reaching its crescendo. A mound of self-disgust over his actions was threatening to engulf his mind. Was that the life he had chosen? The life of a killer? A soulless being who only cared about money? His disturbed spirit found, paradoxically, release in violence, and he blocked, sidestepped and killed another soldier with a ragged cry.  
  
"This is the only way I can live now...the only way!" he growled in anguish, staring murder at the next soldier, cutting him down. "The only way!"  
  
Another lunged at him - a grizzled veteran of many years. He thrust with skill, Loerik parried with much more. They went on a dance for a few moments, thrust and counter-thrust, jabs and slices, strong blades spewing sparks. Then the older warrior was slow in bringing his sword up. Just moment of slowness. An eternity. The Sword of Light crushed his enemy's heart before he could do more than gape. Blood spurted, and another man fell.  
  
Another death. The anguish grew. He fought against it as he had fought it for months upon months, trying to accept his life, the fact that if he could just get used to all of this, he would quickly become renowned and rich. He could have anything he wanted.  
  
"But I...HATE THIS!!!!!!!" he bellowed, in a voice so terrible two soldiers who were about to attack him hesitated and finally chose to engage another. "I'm a SWORDSMAN, not a THUG! Its not the same thing!"  
  
Wasn't it? What was the difference between swordsmen and thugs except for some ethereal code of honor one sometimes ignored and the other rarely even knew about?  
  
'Talk about a to get philosophical, Gabriev!' his mind told him fiercely. 'Survive the battle first, then go and do all the soul-searching you want.' The troubled side of his mind was silenced abruptly, and he returned to the fighting with a vengeance. Yes, he hated it. Yes, he felt like there must have been better ways to live one's life. But for him, the sword was everything, and battles were the region of the world were the sword truly meant something.  
  
Centuries of Gabriev innovations added to the graceful physical arts of the elves of Mipross, compounded by Loerik's sheer instincts made him an untouchable man. He moved through the battlefield like a dancer, hampered by far less armor then most, fleet of foot, deadly with his blade, a hurricane of precise death in the midst of the chaos of man. He charged men, blocked axes and swords, severed limbs, and snuffed out lives. No matter what kind of move his enemies pulled, he seemed to find a way to counteract it. Swiftly, he felt himself falling into the state of automatic aggressivity that had made him choose humanity over elvenkind, and welcomed it. There was nothing now - no doubts, no anguish. Just himself and his sword.  
  
He didn't know, then, how he could have been hit. Normally, when he achieved that state of oneness with violence, he could know when danger threatened, knew when an enemy was prepared to strike. It hadn't always saved him completely, and many faint scars, healed a little too late, were to be seen beneath the cloth - and - armor garment he had on him. But this was a direct attack, one which hit squarely. He saw the blade protruding from his stomach, felt the iciness of it being wrenched back, to be filled by the warm life fluid which kept him alive. He felt the same warmth, salty and reeking, fill his mouth, and he slumped to his knees, then on his back.  
  
Death.  
  
'Not a doubt. Belly wound. Large one. Senses failing. Blood spilling. Can't...think...can't...'  
  
'F...father...'  
  
That was when, his concsiousness barely holding on from the pain, his vision fuzzy and uncaring, he saw eyes looking into his. Large, expressive blue eyes looked at him in pity, eyes so beautiful he felt, for a moment, the remains of his elven blood stir and call to the nature he had been forced to leave behind years before.   
  
'Are you...death?' he wanted to ask, but his body refused to obey to him. His vision blurred. There was a flash of intense white light, and he closed his eyes, certain he never would open them again, and let the peaceful darkness claim him...  
  
...and then he awoke, his eyes snapping shut and his body lurching to a sitting position by force of habit, and he found that he was still standing in the same field he had been stabbed in. Corpses were strewn around him, as well as cloven shields, broken blades and arrows, and the remnants of banners. Looking around, he spotted several men looking around, some pilfering the bodies, others looking for wounded. They all wore Elmekian colors, scarlet and yellow.  
  
'Looks like we won.' Loerik thought, and that thought that followed immediately after was 'Why ain't I dead?'  
  
That question took full possession of him, and he looked down at his shirt. beneath the armor plating which all Gabrievs traditionally wore, the deep grey fabric had been torn open, as if something - like a sword - had ripped it. The fabric was permeated with dry blood, but as he felt for wounds, he encountered nothing but soft flesh and his strong, hardened muscles underneath. Wondering about it, he was suddenly reminded of the last things he had seen, the last thing he had felt: beautiful female eyes, and a white light.  
  
A priestess had healed him. "Thank you, Beautiful Eyes." he whispered "Ashala ibe enei kalalan-itui." My Life is Yours, by Blood, the elven motto of Mipross in such cases. With a last, swift prayer of gratitude for Ceipheed, he rose, sheathing the Sword of Light which he still held in his hand - thank the Gods no one had come to take it!  
  
As he started to walk from the battlefield, feeling no pains and no fatigue, a new question gripped his mind: how did I manage to let someone get past my defenses?  
  
Then he remembered the fact that the sword had penetrated in one of the most deadly place possible, severing his spine and making a gory mess of his stomach. Thew shot had been delivered swiftly, expertly. This was a thrust which couldn't be done that well by just anyone. It had to be someone skilled with a blade to go through such a tensed mass of muscles from one side to the other. He, himself, could do it, but he wondered who else...  
  
That was when a certain idea struck him, foul, slithering, taking root.  
  
He had felt absolutely no one come up behind him, and he trusted his instincts when it came to enemies. But what if the one who had struck him hadn't been felt as being an enemy, thus confusing his instincts? It was all too possible, and it both alarmed and infuriated him. The look must have been scripted on his face, for the soldier he approached looked positively spooked when he asked for directions to the Black Horns Band encampment. He started trudging towards his destination with a stalking step, and then deliberately calmed down. He didn't have proof. He couldn't come in the camp and blast everyone with his sword's powers - it rankled against his rapidly reawakening ethics.  
  
But he would watch. He would watch carefully. And when he found the one who did this to him...  
  
He smiled grimly. That person, whoever she was, would feel very sorry for herself!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
'So this is war...' Hallia Servales, Cleric of the Faith of Ceipheed, reflected bitterly. 'Blood, violence and ultimately death. A waste of lives and the use of pathetic emotions.'  
  
Ever since she had first joined one of the Lumerian armies, she had been disgusted by what she had seen, and that feeling had only strengthened through the two years she had travelled, from battle to battle, bringing with others like her healing, solace and a small bit of hope in a hopeless situation. As she looked around her, she knew that tonight, many wouldn't believe in the last, no matter who told them of it.  
  
Four thousand men and women, armed with bows, swords, some riding horses, and a few casting spells, had joined the fray on the Loredin Plains, trying to keep the northern road from falling squarely under the yoke of the Elmekian forces. They had fought bravely, all of them, using the terrain to their advantage, reaching into the rage which came from the fact that this was home which was threatened, the lands of your fathers and grandfathers. They had given it their all, each and everyone of them.  
  
And, as it usually had been ever since the snows thawed and the fighting resumed, it simply hadn't been enough.  
  
The Elmekian had come at them with at least two dozen magic users, raining destructive spells on them, forcing the few spellcasters the Lumerians had to use their energies to defend the army as best they could. Behind these sorcerors had come hundreds of Imperial Knights, arrayed in polished plate mail, their shields proudly displaying the crest of the Empire of Elmekia, the Gold Unicorn. And behind them had surged thousands of men on foot, many more than the had.  
  
The mercenaries, which had attacked the flanks while she had been there with others to try and help in whatever capacity she had, had been specially merciless. She had attempted to help - a few Burst Rondos and Fireballs had been cast - but there had been nothing she could do to stem the tide as the veteran warriors fell the good Lumerian soldiers, many of which were young and inexperienced. One, in particular, had stuck to her mind.  
  
Dark-haired, tall, wielding a sword of a design she didn't recognize, he had been a scythe reaping lives. No one had been able to touch him. Lumerians fell one by one under his blade as he seemed to incarnate death itself. She might well have despised him had she not seen the anguish, the undefinable sorrow which had gripped the deadly sword dancer as he slew. She had realized she didn't have to despise him, for he despised himself. Instead, she pitied him.  
  
Then he had been struck from behind, by a man she had barely glimpsed, but could see as having the colors of the mercenaries engaged on the Elmekian side. It appeared that, for some reason, the tall, sad warrior had made enemies in his own rank.  
  
It hadn't been her concern. And yet she went and healed the man, despite the fact that he was an enemy. And while she had looked at him, at this anguished, dying face, she had felt something, as if...  
  
"I really shouldn't remind you of this, my dear, but remember that we aren't quite walking through a park in the capital. Attention should be a premium." a chiding voice came to her, breaking her out of her thoughts. She blinked, flushing guiltily, and made apologies to the man who was riding next to her. But Father Verrilin simply brushed off her apologies. "No need for that. You were thinking, and I can't blame you after all that everyone has been through. But remember, this place isn't safe."  
  
"IS there a safe place left at all?" another voice piped up, a clear, bright voice which didn't quite seem to have the gloom needed for the question she had just asked. Verrilin turned behind him and grinned sadly.  
  
"I suppose not, Narie. Most of our lands have been overrun, and they say that the Emperor is gathering his forces to take our capital itself."  
  
"Pig. Rotten pig!" Hallia spat viciously "He's planning to annex the whole of Lumeria to his empire like our history, our culture, what made Lumeria what it was..." she choked "...the Kingdom isn't just a bunch of lines on a map!"  
  
Verrilin, his greying hair falling down below his shoulders, gave her an understanding look and reached out, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I know, Hallia. I know. If only the Emperor knew it as well..."  
  
Narie rode to the other side, her face alight with a deep optimism which made her plain face seem grand. "Something will come up! They say the court mages are trying to do something to get the elmekians if they come anywhere near the capital. Besides, we still live! And as long as I'm alive, I won't give up!"  
  
The high-pitch tone she used was awkward, the words zealous and unrealistic, but Hallia found herself nodding at her, and she saw many of the soldiers in their small group grin or give approval of some kind. No doubt about it, plain Narie's spirit was a buoy to everyone around her.  
  
The older priest chuckle. "Even though I'm more cynical than you, I must say..."  
  
But he never said what he wanted to tell them. In fact, Father Verrilin never had a chance to say anything ever again, as with a humming sound, an arrow pieced his throat. nearly chopping his head off. He was dead instantly, his body slumping on the horse. Blood started to trickle down the sides of the steed as the green-haired magic-user looked at the sudden death of a good friend in horror. For a split second, she saw nothing, felt nothing. She was a cold void.  
  
And then she screamed, her cry of horror echoed beside her as Narie also took in the event. Soldiers turned to them in alarm. And then other arrows flew through the woods around them, coming out from the shadows, a rain of death, fast, unseen. Many of the soldiers never had a chance to react, so well-timed was it. A groan of agony mingled with cries of terror resounded, and half of the people with them died.  
  
By this time, however, Hallia had broken through her shock. Years ago, she might never have found the nerve to face up to this situation, but these days were different. These days, wantom deaths, the deaths of friends, only brought up rage in her disillusioned soul. For a time forgetting her Shrine Maiden teachings, she began to mutter words of arcane power, gathering heat and energy into her hand, willing it to form an almost tangible beam of incandescence.  
  
"Flare Arrow!!!" she cried out loud, launching the magical projectile into the darkness of the woods, straight where the arrows which had killed Verrilin had been launched from. Her guess was certainly partly accurate, for yells resounded when the arrow exploded a small distance away. 'I hope you hurt, you bastards!' she thought viciously, and didn't feel guilty of it even when she realized her thoughts were anathema to all she had ever been taught.  
  
The soldiers started to respond in their own way, men and women nocking arrows and readying blades. Then new arrows started to speed their way.  
  
"Balus Wall!" she heard Narie cry out before she could even react, and the arrows were stopped before most of them could hit. Still, she saw, only Narie and she had any spellcasting abilities, and only twelve soldiers were still standing. A cold knot started to form in the pit of her stomach, a terror she couldn't chase away. Still, she held firm, calling upon the magic she had to try and defeat this enemy.  
  
"Hehehehe! Very amusin', people! You've resisted longer than I though you would, I tell ya" came a hoarse voice from the left. "But I'm pretty sorry and all, but the game's got to end now. At ya all!"  
  
As they turned towards the sound of the voice, a man dashed from under the cover of the trees, sword drawn. He had a set, fervent look about him, and what struck her was the horrible scar which disfigured his face, rendering it even more insane looking. And still, something else struck her about him, but she couldn't tell what.  
  
With a cry, four of the soldiers engaged him, and he moved, slashed and counter-thrust, dodged and hit, until in a few moments all four were down, at least wounded, probably dead. As Narie cried out in dismay, the power of her magical wall dispelled by the lack of concentration, the green-haired maiden, cleric of the Faith Ceipheed, who only wanted to see her brother and father again but had never managed to do so, raised her arms for the most powerful incantation she could muster in her state.  
  
"Source of all power-" she began.  
  
"Oh no you don't missy!" a voice said, and she felt weight behind her. She began to turn, but never had a chance to as a great weight was rammed the side of her head. She barely had time to hear Narie cry out her name, and the roar of voices coming from the wounds, before the darkness swallowed her.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Two people soon had looked from afar as the battle raged. They saw the end, saw the men being slaughtered and pilfered, and two priestesses being bound up and carried away. The taller of the two turned to the other.  
  
"Come on! We can't just go and waltz into a mercenary camp like that!"  
  
"And why not?" said the second testily "I think we've seen two good reasons to try. These are slave-takers, the worst kind of people, worse than the worst bandits."  
  
The other snorted. "Don't make me laugh! Okay, you might want to help those clerics out, but that's not the real reason. You just want to show these brutes that you, Fezra Inverse, can take them on! A snip at their nose, just to show you're the best!!!"  
  
At the accusation, Fezra Inverse only smiled. "I guess you're right! Lets go and show them a thing or two!"  
  
"You're hopeless!"  
  
"Berwen, you nag, I've always been hopeless. And I LOVE IT!!! ONWARD!!!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
People went to greet Loerik in relief as he came back to camp. He wasn't very surprised at this. In the mercenary world, nothing mattered but the skill with which you kill. The better you were, the more friends you started having. As he was perhaps the most skilled in the mercenary camp, next to the leader and - supposedly - Kalarus, he had a lot of friends. They came enthusiastically to congratulate him on killing so many and surviving no doubt.  
  
However, this time they didn't get far. In fact most skidded to an abrupt halt as they beheld his face. He didn't know what his expression was, but if it was anything in representing the rage and outrage he felt, no wonder some of them blanched.  
  
"Ah...Gabriev...its nice to...well..." one of them fumbled. A growl stopped the man before he could manage anything more.  
  
"Save the damn speech." Loerik muttered angrily, his eyes flashing dangerously "I'm in a damn bad mood. Where's the big boss? I need to talk to him now!"  
  
"Err...Gabriev...its just that..."  
  
"TELL ME, DAMN YOU!!" he bellowed, and instantly all those who still were close to him weren't. He found himself taking hold of the fearful mercenary, using his greater bulk and strength to shake him like a leaf. He was acting barbarously, and he didn't care. "TELL ME! WHERE IS HE!?!"  
  
"I-in his private tent! He's-"  
  
But the black-haired swordsman had already shoved him aside, making his furious way to the tent. He should have known the old mercenary would be there. But he had wanted to make sure. No, that was a lie. He had asked the question only to vent his very own frustration at something or someone. Horrendous. Barbaric. And the worst was, he still didn't mind it, even as a side of him tried to calm him down.  
  
One of his own comrades had tried to kill him, he was certain. And that put his anger beyond control.  
  
He stalked into the tent unannounced, glaring his way past the guards at the tent flap, his vision clouded. It was only when he had taken three good steps into the carpeted, gloomy space that he stopped. In the private part of the tent, he was hearing someone weep. A female voice.  
  
A hurt, agonized one. It cut through his anger, restoring reason instantly, and he gasped despite himself as the implications of the sounds came to his mind.  
  
The gasp had the effect he had wanted to have a mere moment before. The sheet separating the private parts of the tent with the more public ones was torn open, and a bedraggled, panting leader emerged, greying hair haphazard, absolutely naked. Blood was oozing down scratches on his side, and Loerik saw with mounting horror the deep red which colored the muscled man's knuckles. For a single moment, the sight ignited him, and thoughts of drawing the Sword of Light and cut this...aberration...to pieces was overwhelming.  
  
He couldn't understand himself, couldn't pinpoint what had caused him to open his eyes so suddenly. It certainly hadn't been the close encounter he had had with death - that is something he had long made his peace with. The attempt on his life in such a treacherous manner infuriated him, but it hadn't been enough to change his view so drastically.  
  
No...no...if anything had stirred his soul, plunging a knife right through the places he had hidden years ago out of anger and despair, it had been those large blue eyes. The eyes of his savior. Sad, angry, but still burning with something he had long been missing. Something which had been part of him and of every Gabriev from Rowdy to the first of the family.  
  
Honor. Decency. These things made him hear the woman's cry, and it was all he could do not to kill the man who had been his leader for years.  
  
The mercenary, fortunately, didn't notice the spasm of murder which trembled in his eyes, or the clenching of his hands. Instead he asked, in a somewhat irritated tone. "Gabriev. What's the problem boy? Can't it wait a bitsy. I'm kind of busy right now."  
  
"I can see that, sir." Loerik declared in a cold tone where disgust was warring to surface. He resisted the temptation - antagonizing him meant doing the same with dozens of trained war veterans. And he wasn't foolish enough to think he could take all those people on. "I didn't think you'd be so close after the battle-"  
  
"Gods man!" the leader gasped, cutting him off. "You're covered with blood."  
  
What a brilliant observation considering that his tunic was soaked with it and he never wore colors like rust and red. He didn't say anything out loud, however, just stood there looking at the older man stoically. He didn't really want to be here anymore. The decadence which reeked from the man now that his damned sense of honor and desire to help others - damn his parents for instilling those useless emotions in him! - was overwhelming, and he wanted to sit or lie down to think about all that had happened, what had changed in him, what he couldn't bare any longer. And, most importantly, how he was going to deal with it.  
  
The woman moaned again. That was it. He could either do something he might regret, or flee this place. At once.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't notice." he mumbled "I'll leave you to your pleasures..." he choke ever so slightly as he said the word "And tell you about the situation later on. With that, he left, no listening to the irritated, commanding protests. Not knowing if he could ever bear to enter it.  
  
His soul condemned him a vile fool. He couldn't help but admit it was right. For the first time in three years, Loerik Gabrieve, son of Rowdy Gabriev and grandson of the legendary Swordsman of Light, looked at his surroundings without veiling them to the truth. What he found there was petrifying in its complex horror, its terrifying mix of vices and hopelessness.  
  
Men were there, but although he saw traces of past honor and ideals on many of them, they had been smudged, stained or silenced by necessity. Ideals had been put aside in the need for money, honor replaced by the yearning for food. These men had lived by the sword, but had long lost sight of the codes which had been drawn by the First Knights a thousand years before.  
  
Had he become like them? A shadow, a fallen man who had forgotten his views in his need to survive. He searched for an answer within himself, and the answer he saw nearly toppled him. Not knowing and not caring if others thought him crazed, he moaned softly and fell to his knees, tears blurring his eyes.  
  
"Foul...violent...my brother was right." he wailed gently "I'm not worthy of my mother's elven blood. I'm not worthy of wielding the Sword of Light."  
  
'Make yourself worthy, you crybaby!' a voice cried out, angry, and he found that it sounded like his father's when he was scolding him long 'You think Rowdy would have given you that sword if he didn't BELIEVE you could do it. Now stop whining and make things right!'  
  
The voice shook inside of him, hitting a chord which had never broken. The decent man behind the killer was still there. He HADN'T died, like he knew it had in so many others. He wouldn't let it!  
  
"I will...make things right." he said, opening his eyes "Someway, somehow."  
  
With that, he rose to his feet. He obviously had made a mild scene, for many eyes eyed him with varying expressions, but he didn't pay them the slightest heed. The self-doubts were put to rest for now, and he could go forward with the thoughts he had squashed when the elves thrust him out of Mipross. He had been raised by good people, and he would live as a good man. He would make amends for three years of uncaring, three years of putting his head in the sand as despicable acts were committed. And he knew, in a flash, just how to begin to do so.  
  
It would take time. It would be dangerous. It may well cost him his life.  
  
But it would be the right thing to do. And that was the most important fact of all.  
  
  
  
  
FACTS:  
  
The Hidden Lores: An amalgam of spells and artifacts left behind as the War of Resurrection ended. Amongst them are many precious items, like the Sword of Light, the Crystal Staff, the Claire Bible and the Philosopher Stone.  
  
The First Knights: A group of powerful human warriors who maintained hope and honor during and following the end of the War of Resurrection. Gabriev, the first Swordsman of Light and patriarch of the Gabriev Family, was part of that noble order. The Codes of Honor which inspire modern knighthood were written by they. 


	3. Chapter Two

Those Who Came Before  
Chapter 2  
  
'Its rather simple: I don't believe in losing. You may think that's egostical of me, and you might be right, hehe. But thats not it. I said that I don't believe in losing, period. If I did believe in that concept, I'd never have survived the tests which made me a great sorceror, I wouldn't have met your mom, and then that means...you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't that be sad?'  
  
-Marcus Inverse to his oldest daughter Luna  
  
'Justice is the soul of the righteous, Loyalty is his heart.'  
  
-Motto of the Sailunean Knights  
  
  
  
Few cities were as beautiful as the city of Sailune. Founded scant years after the War of resurrection had torn the world asunder, it had grown from a simple temple, a small keep and a few farmhouses into a great metropolis of wealth and stone. Soaring white walls, erected higher than any other had ever been in human history, encircled the premises. There, hundreds of houses, shops, and markets dotted the wide, clean streets. People bustled left and right, watched with intent eyes by the city garrison. The soldiers were chosen for their loyalty and dedication, and had been for many decades. This made a police force of rare potency. Consequently, fighting was rare in the city, and crimes, surprisingly given the sheer size of the city, were even rarer. Sailune was a safe city, and a wealthy one.  
  
Wealthy, because it stood at the center of the civilized world, and thus had deals of great magnitude. Lizeillan blades and armors were present on the markets, as well as prized Kalmaartian jewelry, Zefielian wine, even wooden beams and wooden carvings from Dilsean caravans. And much more. Coins were exchanged daily, and flowed into the coffers of the city and its kingdom at a rate unseen even in the other wealthy countries such as Lizeille and Zefielia.  
  
Before there came great wealth and a large army, the city was renowned for the strength of its white magic users. Usually powerful by themselves, the layout of the city actually gave them arcane added help in the form of its inner walls. Carefully built following precise plans engineered by the nest white magic minds, the walls made the entire city a seal of magic, a rune of power designed to gather the positive energies of the surrounding world and create a resistance to negative energy. Because of this, the white mages of Sailune were highly respected, and their presence, added to that of the well-supplied, well-armed conventional army within its walls, explained the fact that the city had never fallen to any attackers - human or otherwise in centuries.  
  
The White Bastion, the castle of the royal family, reflected all of this wealth and sentiment of invulnerability. Built next to the impressive St-Harus Cathedral, it stood squarely in the middle of the city, and enjoyed increased magical protection. Large courtyards and gardens surrounded the main body of the castle, which rose in a symphony of slender towers, sturdy walls and scores of balconies, parapets and tall windows of crystal-clear glass. The interior was even more luxurious, with rich carpets imported from the finest places in Ralteague, hight collums of alabaster, and soaring ceilings. The place was magnificience and pride given form, and was the envy of many a foreign noble visitor.  
  
But there were those who did not care one wit about the splendor surrounding them, the wealth which was there, and the pride of nearly nine centuries of prosperity. These rare persons were either members of the royal family - who had been born in wealth - or people blinded by strong emotions. Crown Prince Philionel Di Sailune happened to be both as he charged through the halls, tailed by three advisors desperately trying to calm his ire.  
  
"Father! I demand to talk to you at once!" he bellowed, stalking.  
  
"My Prince! Your Highness! Please calm yourself, I beg of you!"  
  
"I am certain the King will have a worthy explanation to give to your anger, my Prince."  
  
"You must calm yourself. If the court saw you in such a fury, people might talk."  
  
"Majesty, you must-"  
  
"SILENCE!" he roared, not breaking stride. This sent them all in a flutter. Philionel understood why perfectly - he usually was far more polite, and slow to anger. But today wasn't usual. Today was the day he wanted explanations from his father as to why Sailune would stna by and see a neighbouring nation be exterminated by another.  
  
At seventeen, the prince was fully grown, his height far above the norm, with a girth which was quickly matching it. He was clean shaven, which had been necessary where he'd been, and this only accentuated the fact that he wasn't handsome by any measure under the sky. Indeed, he knew most women made snide remarks about him, calling him 'beast', 'tall bear' or even 'furry thing' as if they thought he wouldn't hear them, too caught up in his 'Justice Dellusions.' He did believe - fanatically, he could admit it to himself - that living by the old codes of justice was the core of a good life, but that didn't make him dumb, blind, or close-minded. However, he usually maintained the charade, to hear what people really thought, and center those he'd have to watch especially. So far, the mask of 'justice-driven' psychosis had been perfect.  
  
Only now it had slipped, leaving only a frowning young man with a desire for confrontation. This desire prompted him to open the door to his father's chambers unannounced, nearly tearing the finely-carved doors from their hinges, slamming them behind him unacaring if it might smash into the faces of the whining advisors who were tailing him. He gave a cursory glance at the large bed, the many paintings, the relics which the late queen had collected before a ravaging fever had taken her away, and found his father idly toying with the one both rulers had preferred - a dragon statuette, all in silver with emeralds for its eyes. The older man turned swiftly as he made his dramatic entrance, his eyes narrowed and surprised. However the face relaxed at once, taking in an air of relative boredom.  
  
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune looked little like his son. Shorter, slighter, he had a gentler, nobler face which seemed to shine with intelligence. Philionel always seemed to see his youngest brother, Christopher, in that face. However, it was a Christopher who lacked the warmth and understanding which made him so endearing to the prince.  
  
"I should have known you woulf barge in." the king said "You never could get a hold of your emotions."  
  
"This isn't about me, and you know it, father." Phil returned - long gone were the days when the king had impressed him "This is about an entire nation about to be crushed."  
  
The middle-aged hands stopped toying with the dragon statuette, and with a sight the king put it back were it belonged. "I gather you mean Lumeria by that." It wasn't a question.  
  
Phil nodded. "Lumeria and the fact that three thousand of our troops are gathered at its border, preventing any refugees from passing into our lands."  
  
"Who told you that?!?" was the harsh reply.  
  
"I don't look much like a nobleman, do I, father? I just threw on some old clothes, shaved myself and went to snoop." Philionel gave a smile of grim amusement "You'd be surprised how much more truth I hear from the people when they don't think I have any power over them."  
  
The king's eyes narrowed angrily. "Fool. Your antics and your need to go look for trouble against all reason is enough to put the entire nation in turmoil. If you had any concern about Sailune-"  
  
"I DO have concerns about Sailune!" Philionel cut off, using his stronger voice to silence his father in an act of anger which surpirsed them both in their intensity. "I'm concerned about it losing the thing which made it so great amongst other nations - its need to see justice done. So tell me! Tell me why the Sailunean army is just sitting on its hands while people are dying."  
  
There were long moments of silence. Then the king walked a few steps and stood, his eyes intent and interested, right before Phil. The tension was palpable, and cold began to seep through the young man's back at his father's expression.  
  
"Do you truly want to know the answer, my son?" the king asked mildly.  
  
"I do." And he managed to make himself believe it, too.  
  
"Its simple: politics. I wanted something, and the emperor of Elmekia wanted something. I managed to secure what I wished for, in exchange for neutrality in the Lumeria-Elmekia War. You're asking yourself 'What could be worth an entire nation?' Good question. My answer? OUR nation." A dry smile crossed the king's bearded face. "I arranged for your marriage with lady Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, the niece of..."  
  
"...of Emperor Ferlin Gredon Sar Elmekun, and one of the most beautiful women in Elmekia." Phil finished in a whisper. Then he shook his head. "I can't believe it. Cancel it! I won't have any part of this."  
  
So far the king had been talking as a disgruntled father to a rebellious son, but Philionel's denial changed that. The eyes instantly became colder, and the stature seemed to grow on the older man as he used of his magnetism and force of command. He was the king, Philionel the prince. The discussion was closing.  
  
"That is quite enough. Sailune won't get involved in a fight which doesn't concern us, and you will be married and will produce an heir. This way, you will be serving the kingdom like I am serving it by not making any military moves."  
  
"At what expense, father?" Philionel tried to plead one last time. But the king didn't answer. Instead he turned around, walked back to the silver statuette, and toyed with it thoughtfully. A command and warning at the same time. In short, the king had decided, and he had to live with it.  
  
He wouldn't. Philionel might be an ugly man, he might be far too devoted to the cause of justice, but in the end, he was an honest man. And he vowed, then and there, no matter what happened, no matter the fact he knew his brothers might envy him, might hate him, he would never change. He would stay an honest man, he would stand up against injustice.  
  
And most of all, he wouldn't become a man who'd sacrifice an entire nation just to see his son married.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
She floated inside a sea of quiet darkness. It was a soothing journey for her. Her thoughts seemed unconfined, free to swirl through the unending expanse. There, an image flared to life, only to disappear back into the void. Voices from the past beckoned to her at moments, voices she longed for, some she knew she would never hear again. All that mattered little. The darkness was bliss.  
  
"Hallia..." a voice whispered.  
  
The sounds seared through the black expanses for a moment, and her scattered thoughts congregated for a brief time, wondering. Together they searched for the voice, the flaring of outside light, but encountered only a wall of pain. She recoiled, and her mind started to scatter once more.  
  
"Hallia, please, wake up!" the voice hissed, a note of sheer concern present.  
  
That tone was too brilliant, far too foreign and alive for her mind not to coalesce once more. Again they searched for an exit, and again the pain was felt. However her mind wanted out, forced against the pain, until it envellopped her in stark red sensations. The red lightened, became whiter, and then...  
  
And then Hallia opened her eyes, and wished she could close them forever as her head throbbed like she had imps knocking on it with hammers. She could actually feel her blood pulse painfully, and she winced as it awakened other sensations in her body - a dry throat, stiffness everywhere she knew of and places she didn't, a nearly overwhelming tiredness - and lifted her head in a groggy motion.  
  
She was in a rather shadowy place, filled with the scent of dirt, excrements and putrefaction, an amalgam of things which almost caused her to swoon on the spot. She didn't, however. Years scouring the battlefields for people to heal had toughened her to the many dire scnets which could assail a nose. Coughs and soft moans were the main sounds she heard, with little in the way of whispered conversations. Her eyes told her the rest. That, however, shook her up badly.  
  
Around her were women, all rather young, all dressed in clothes torn and sullied, with their hands manacled together and chained to short wooden poles. Many had marks on there body - welts, fading or fresh bruises, and cuts here and there, with a few having larger wounds. What truly scared her, what truly put her wits in momentarily jeopardy, wasn't so much the wounds as the lack of life and light she saw in many eyes. Far too many women looked straight ahead, uncaring. Hallia noticed that her own arms were chained in the same manner  
  
"Thank Ceipheed you're alright!" the voice exclaimed, and she looked beside her to see Narie looking back in unadulterated relief. The plain-looking young priestess had a large purplish welt on the side of her head, and was chained like all were in this place, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed.  
  
"Narie...Narie...where...where are we? What happened?" she asked, but then her memory flashed, catching up to her. She remembered the ambush, the dead eyes of a priest who had been a friend, the soldiers dying, up to the scar-faced man hacking and slashing gleefully, and then the darkness. She shivered. "Where are we?" she repeated.  
  
Her friend shook her head, but then a voice came up, rough and tired, yet retaining pride and strength. "In Hell, Priestess. Or at least, as close to Hell a woman can find in this damn sorry world."  
  
It belonged to the woman in front of them both. Tall, somewhat muscular, she had a sort of proud bearing which reminded Hallia of the few swordsman she had met, virtuosos of the sword who lived for duels and conflict. Her matted brown hair hung like dirt, and a bruise had one of her eyes puffed shot. And yet despite this and many other wounds, there was dignity and defiance still present.  
  
Glad to have someone around her who could still speak, the green-haired priestess voiced her concerns again. "What do you mean this is Hell? Where are we?!"  
  
"In the slave tent of the Black Horns, one of the most dangerous mercenary groups in Elmekia." she bitterly replied "Toys for the depraved amongst them."  
  
"T-toys?"  
  
"Sex toys, priestess girl."  
  
Narie gasped in horror, shivering, while Hallia could only look on and fight a wave of nausea as the concept. The sheer humiliations and pain profiling themselves on the horizon, pictured through the many blank stares around, was alomost too much, and she moaned softly. "It can't be...no..."  
  
A mix between bitter laughter and a cough was heard, and she saw the older woman tense, her arms struggling against the chains which retained them prisoner, and relax just as suddenly, her shoulders slumping down. "You'd better believe it. Even accept it. You're gonna survive longer if you do. Most of the others...they broke quickly, because they couldn't accept it."  
  
"What are they going to do to us?" Narie asked fearfully.  
  
"Haven't you been listening, you dumb cleric?" the woman spat "We're a bunch of studs to them, sex toys! They'll hurt us, play with us, until we die! That's what they'll do!"  
  
Narie whimpered, her usual cheerful personality gone, and Hallia countered hotly. "Stop it, damn you! She's scared, no damn need to blow up like that!"  
  
The good eye on the other woman flashed, and she probably would have responded if a shadow hadn't covered them right at that moment. A look on who it was sent the bound woman shivering, glaring in terror and hatred. Disconcerted by the reaction, feeling ice knot her stomach, Hallia looked and saw the tall, scarred frame of the fellow who had gone and killed the remaining soldiers caught in the ambush. His sneering leer took in the chained woman.  
  
"Zashtla, Zashtla, Zashtla..." the man mock-scolded "Can't ya jus' shuddap sometimes? Didn't I teach ya to shut up? Didn't I just?"  
  
There was no answer, only a look of hate and terror. With a smile - a perverted smile which terrorized Hallia more than anything else she'd seen or heard yet - he delivered a kick to his silent charge, who gasped in pain yet managed to maintain teary eye contact. Apparently satisfied, the man crouched and examined Hallia thouroughly, taking in her curves slowly, with a sadistic pleasure. The unholy glee she saw was nearly enought to make her scream, but she wouldn't she swallowed the terror she felt with an effort, fought to calm the shivers pervading her body.   
  
"Yer pretty. Very pretty thing." he mused "I really dig the hair, 'specially. Yup, yup, you'd do nicely..."  
  
Hallia recoiled, her heart beating wildly, her breath fast and whimpering. But the scarred man didn't touch her. Instead he turned his attention to the plainer Narie.  
  
"But I'm in a destructive mood today, I tell ya. And that jus' wouldn't do to mess up yar pretty face. Sooooo..." he grinned at the wide-eyed Narie "I guess yar the lucky one t'night."  
  
Narie started as he reached and unlocked the chain holding her to the pole, as if what had been said was truly registering. Flooded with relief, shamed because of it, Hallia could only look on helplessly as horror dawned on her friend as she was thrust to her feet. She tried to call up her magic, but something was preventing her from feeling the powers. Narie must have tried as well, for she started to struggle fiercely.   
  
"NO! NO! LET ME GO!! HALLIA! HELP ME! HELP!!!!" she screamed, drawing no reaction from the other women other than some raised heads, quickly bent again. "HALLIA-" she was silenced by a surrounding slap from a the gleeful mercenary, and she disolved into fearful sobs as he led her away roughly, beaming. Before he departed from her sight, he gave her a mock bow.  
  
"To a later night, I tell ya, pretty!" he said with a chuckle, and departed with his helpless victim.  
  
"Narie...I'm so sorry..." Hallia whispered, settling back, her heart aching painfully as she remembered the sheer terror in her friend's voice. Then she looked at the other woman, and saw her, wincing from the pain and yet growling angrily, her good eye looking in hate towards the spot the man had vanished.  
  
"You were right..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said you were right....this...is Hell." and then she closed her eyes, whishing for a calm which might never come again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Night had fallen around the Black Horns' camp, bringing with it fires, and the usual clomps of men gathered together to have a serving of late stew, or to play cards. Guards were posted at regular intervals, but their vigilance was lax. Over two hundred of the most ruthless mercenaries chatted or slept in the camp. Who, many of the sentries though, would be crazy enough to attack them? Any sane person would give their camp a wide berth and go look elsewhere for prey.  
  
This, Fezra Inverse said to herself, just served to prove that she was a crazy woman. And who cared? Slipping forward, the sorceress slinked at the edge of the light, and stealthily came upon a drowsy sentry. He didn't react to her presence, and she brought her fingers forward, focusing on her magic, finding it alive and plentiful, filling her soul, and dashed forward, tapping the man on the forehead.  
  
The man gasped at her, but before he could even open his mouth, the spell started taking effect, and he fell to the floor in a soft clatter. Fezra looked at her handiwork in swelling pride. No one had noticed, nothing in the camp changed. A perfect infiltration move.  
  
She heard a sigh, and turned to grin to her friend Berwen, who was coming forward with an expresssion of exasperated disgust. Slight and of average height for women the both of them, they differed greatly in looks - Fezra brown-haired with hawk-like features, while Berwen was blond and rounder-faced - and temperaments. They were, on many things, complete opposites. And that only made their friendship more interesting.  
  
"I had an actual plan to get into this deathtrap, but did you listen? Noooooo! You just went and took risks, as damn usual!" the blonde sorceress griped in a whisper.  
  
"Aw, get over it, everything's cool here. Besides, its not like a little sentry'd be any challenge for Fezra Inverse!"  
  
"One day that arrogance is gonna get us both in a pickle."  
  
"We'll see what to do about that when it happens, okay?" she grinned, flicked her thumb towards the camp "Now lets go and get some girls out of there!" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and stauntered nearer the lights.  
  
She heard, as expected, a huff and a shift, and then heard soft steps behind her, and knew Berwen had decided to follow. She felt good about that. Ever since the two had begun to train in one of the Rogue Guilds - places hunted by the recognized places of magical learninh - the two had been friends, Berwen's practicality balancing Fezra's impulsivness. The two had been excellent, fast-learning students, and even though it had soon become clear that Fezra was the better sorceress, their bond had deepened until they were well-nigh inseperable. It had been a taken, then, to find adventures - and wealth - together. With, sometimes, a little fiasco to enter and mangle a bit, like they were doing now. What a marvelous life!  
  
Berwen lay an hand on her shoulder, and she looked back to the shadowy form behind her. "Better let me lead the way, Fezzie."  
  
"Why?" she couldn't help but ask, even though she could easily tell the answer to that. She just liked to lead, not follow.  
  
"You didn't memorize the layout of the camp, did you Inverse dear?" Berwen said in a light tone. When a 'hmph' was all that was said, she continued. "Thought not, airhead. But I did. Now follow me. It'll go faster if I show the way to the slave den, no?"  
  
Fezra pouted a second, but could find no couter-argument to what was, after all was said and done, the simple truth. Giving an exaggerated shrug, she let her friend pass and followed closely, alert to any noise.  
  
It was when they neared the large, low tent where the female slaves were being kept that a shadow suddenly loomed over them, deeper than the night. With a cry, Berwen stumbled back, while Fezra gathered her wits and threw a Light spell at the shadow. Night was briefly illuminated, revealing a tall man, built in hard muscles, stepping backward with an hand over his face. Not missing a beat, she began to mumble the world for a Flare Arrow, while Berwen was calling up the first words of an Elmekia Lance. Before the spells could go off, however, the tall man brough up an hand, blinking.  
  
"Wait! I'm on your side, dammit! I want to free the slaves too."  
  
That stopped her for a moment, but she wasn't woman to be taken in so lightly. "You're a mercenary from theis camp, handsome," she said dryly "Odds are, you were just coming to have a little fun."  
  
"No! Never!" he said feircely, with such palpable disgust that she suddenly started gauging him more carefully. "Look, you're right - I'm a Black Horn, or at least I was. I had - forgotten who I was, and...and I want to make it up somehow. If you're here to help the women escape, I'll gladly help you."  
  
"I believe him. He doesn't have the tone of a liar." Berwen told her a moment later. Fezra growled softly, but at last extinguished the magical light. She knew that the situation called for leaps of faith, and her friend had always been good at finding out who was lying and who wasn't. If Berwen said someone was trustworthy, then she had no choice but to think that the person was, no matter her own uncertainties on the matter.  
  
"Fine. If you want to help, then help." she held up a finger, useless in the darkness "But I'm warning you, one false move and I'll shove a Fireball up your ass!"  
  
"I know." he answered simply, and turned away. The party - now grown to three - resumed its journey, and found themselves facing wide awake guards at the doorflap of the slave tent. Both groups froze. Then the guards reached for their weapons, yelling.  
  
Cursing, Fezra didn't waste time, and conjured energy as fast as the wind. "Flare Arrow!' she called, and a beam of incandescence when from her hands and struck one of the guards squarely. The second one had gotten his weapon out, but before the sorceresses could react, their newfound companion flashed a blade, struck, and flashed in back in its sheath in one swift motion. The second guard immediately toppled over.  
  
"Not bad!" she said.  
  
"Thanks!" he answered "Now lets get them out before all hell breaks loose!"  
  
They entered precipituously, and neither she nor Berwen had the time to do much more than gape at the scenery exposed to their light spells - women in rags, chained, bruised, faces emotionless and blank. It was a terrible sight, but one she willed herself not to dwell on. Time was short, and she decided to go and help those who seemed to still remember they were alive. She used her magical powers to burst chains, and helped many a bruised girl on her feet, unheeding of their stammering or effusive thanks, of their questions.   
  
One, however, wouldn't be calmed, and in fact became even more agitated when she was freed. "Narie. We gotta help Narie!" she said frantically, her words tumbling over each other. Fezra blinked, but shook her head.  
  
"Sorry, we gotta split if she's not here..."  
  
"But I CAN'T leave her with that man...that...that...what did you call him, Zastha?" she asked an athletic woman who was massaging her wrists.  
  
"Kalarus...he's the worst kind of pig. A top swordsman, too."  
  
"Sounds like major bad news." Fezra mused, than gave a sympathetic look to the girl "I can't go chasing off after your friend. We have to escape and - hey, HEY!"  
  
She could have torn her hair out in sheer frustration as the woman - a moderate magic-user by the feel - ran out of the tent, tearing off the magical dampener around her neck. It was a foolish run, doomed to fail without help.  
  
The warrior looked at the retreating back, gasped, and ran after her.  
  
"Agh!!! Is everyone turning suicidal?!?" she shouted. Berwen turned to her with a smirk.  
  
"Look who's talking!"  
  
"Why you-!"  
  
Noise was suddenly heard from outside. Feet, shouts, and the jingle of armor. Fast approaching. Many of the women moaned fearfully, knowing that when the soldiers caugh them, they wouldn't be able to defend themselves.  
  
But Fezra only grinned at Berwen, who nodded lightly and took up postion beside her near the entrance. Both raised their hands as the dounds became an imminent danger.  
  
"Source of all power, light which burns..."  
  
"...beyond crimson, let thy power gather in my hand!"  
  
The mercenaries alerted by the noise burst into the tent, and stared at the sight of the duo holding orbs of flames between their hands.  
  
Fezra giggled. "See ya!"  
  
Berwen winked. "Hope you enjoyed the trip!" And with that both put their hands forwards as the mercenaries scrambled backward.  
  
"FIREBALL!" And with that word, the front of the tent and many besides blew up. Fezra Inverse had started having a little fun.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
In the distance, Loerik heard the first of the explosions, and knew that the two sorceresses had begun to fight against the warriors alerted by the noise and disturbances in the area of the slave tent. He knew he could have been of great help had he stayed, and not only because of the inherent skill of his swordsmanship. However, he had seen confidence and power in them, and guessed that they could probably manage to escape - hopefully with the persona they had aimed to save. He, however, was stuck with another problem, which was to chase down a woman.  
  
Not that it was a practice he usually endured or cared for, but in this case, he didn't feel like he had much choice in the matter. She was, after all, going to confront one of the most skilled and dangerous men Loerik had ever met in the three years of warfare he had participated in. H he couldn't let that happen.  
  
Inside himself, he told himself, kept telling himself stubbornly indeed, that the danger the woman was rushing headlong into was the only reason he was going to help her. His sense of honor, newly reawakened and redefined, wouldn't let a death happen that he could prevent. There was nothing else to it, he told himself, he was just doing the decent thing, that was all there was.  
  
Man, was he kidding himself or what?  
  
It wasn't the only reason he was chading down this girl. The real reason, the one he wanted to hide from himself, was the fact that he was certain she was the one, the one who had pulled him from the brink of death and thus had made him reconsider what he was beoming. The eyes he had seen, the delicate traits... he was certain he was right. And that belief made him remember he had sword a life-debt to his savior. And although no one had been there to hear his vow, Loerik Gabriev was a man who lived by them.  
  
Thus, he was starting to feel quite annoyed when she managed to disappear from view ahead of him. He didn't know whether it was fear or anger or even madness which fueled her now, but the fact remained that there was an astounding amount of speed in these slight legs, speed his larger, longer ones couldn't keep up with. At this rate, she'll burn herself up. he thought And that means she'll be helpeless when she gets to Kalarus. heck, I'll be surprised if she finds enough breath to pull of a little light of magic, much less a spell which could hurt the guy! Damn the woman. And damn my silly vows anyway!  
  
He poured on the speed, zooming through the camp. He wasn't drain, for one. He wasn't even breathing hard yet, a testament to his stern regimen of physical, concentration and swordsmanship training. He was at the peak of his health, and was glad for it - he was going to need it. He passed several mercenaries and clumps still haunched over fires, ignored the calls and looks tossed his way, and finally arrived to the older swordsman's tent. A small fire was starting to die, untended, near it, and he skidded to a halt near it, listening intently.  
  
He picked up noise all to easily. First a man's cry of anger, followed by a thus and a woman's shout. The scuffle was undelined by whimpers which came from another female throat. Knowing that he couldn't dally, that everything hinged at his acting at once, Loerik stepped forward and started to draw his sword. Before he could take more than two firm steps, however, he heard the sounds nearing the tent flap.  
  
"Ya lil bitch! Ya think I'm gonna let ya go easy now?! Jus' prepare yourself, wench! This is gonna hurt, I tell ya!"  
  
There was another thud, of flesh hitting flesh, and suddenly the green-haired woman he'd been chasing stumbled backward, swaying, clutching a side of her face which was quickly getting darker by the light of the fire. Behind her came Kalarus himself, his eyes wide and gleeful, his sword in his hand. He raised it over his hand, and started to bring it down swiftly for the killing blow.  
  
That was his cue to act, and Loerik didn't waste the chance. His sword was out completely when the twoi people had burst near him, and the fact that the swordsman never heeded anything else but the girl allowed him to move in, bringing his own blade up to soundly parry the blow. Metal clanged on metal and Kalraus, not having expected the parry, had to step back has his arm shook from vibrations he hadn't been prepared to deal with.  
  
"I really think you shoudl just lay it to rest now, Kalarus." He said, taking the chance to put himself in front of the groggy cleric, his sword poised. The older man blinked, then snarled in outrage.  
  
"What's da damn meanin' of this, Gabrieb?! That lil bitch jus' came in and ruined all mah fun, I tell ya! Now step aside an' lemme get her for it!"  
  
Loerik didn't respond at once, silently assessing the older man. He was wearing only his breeches, and was covered in a sweaty, greasy film. A slight heaving could be detected from him, and hir hair was matted. However, he also spotted marks on the angry, scarred face, mark he knew had been made by human nails and fists.Yes the man had been having fun, but not the kind of fun he could just walk away from! Yet how often had he done exactly so? How many times had he seen similar events and walked passed them? The very thought shamed him, but only fueled his drive.  
  
"Sorry, man. But I'm through with the crap I've been living. I've been lying to myself and I hate it. Now you better step aside and hand over that girl you've been hiding, or you'll have to face me right here and now!"  
  
A moment passed as the two men studied each other. Kalarus began by reacting with shock, then a growing rage, whcih finally transformed into a sort of grim amusement. He smiled in an unhealthy, gleeful way as he brough his sword into a fighting stance, his lusty anticipation nearly buckling Loerik's concentration.  
  
"I always wanted tah see," he muttered with a chuckle "If ya were worth of the family name yer usin'!"  
  
"Come and find out, then. I'm all yours!"  
  
No time was wasted on words anymore, as Kalarus attacked. Loerik pushed the still-dazed cleric out of harm's way, and managed to block and repell the attack, counter-attacking swiftly with his own thrust, only to finf it deflected away. A leering grin answered his tight-mouthed mien as the blades crashed on each other again, Kalarus' Valserrim vying for dominance against the Sword of Light.  
  
A dance started, a deadly waltz of steel. It was faster, more precise and more complicated that any he had yet done ever since the last time he had sparredwith his father, just before the Elder Elves of Mipross had decided to banish him for choosing Humanity instead of Elvenkind. The thought of this banishment, of the cruelty of it, cruelty endorsed by his older brother, only added to the cold fire which made him fight. He had chosen humanity, and paid for it, but he hadn't chosen the path he had to end up skewered at the end of a lusty, sick twisted swordsman's blade! He pushed himself harder into the fight.  
  
He had always known Kalarus was the one person who might defeat him in a swordfight - their fighting skills had always seemed equal. However, it was clear the older fighter had exerted himself a great deal in the process of the unsavory sport he he done. That, added to the fact he was less mentally ready to combat another of his skill level, allowed the younger swordsman to eventually take the upper hand.His blows always seemed closer and closer, and the other's defence was getting more and more frantic, until, at long last, a shot went through, badly skewering Kalarus' shoulder blade. The man repelled him with a n angry cry of pain, then stepped backward.  
  
"Damn ya!" he growled. "I shoulda made sure ya were dead the other day!"  
  
To Loerik, it didn't come as much of a surprise to hear those words, really. The shot which had almost killed him - which would've - had been done from behind, with great skill in stealth and precision. There were only two men he knew who could do it - the leader of the Black Horns, or Kalarus. And his former leader never had any personal problems with him, unlike Kalarus, with whom he had often disagreed vehemently. As such, he only gritted his teeth in reponse.  
  
"I'm not surprised you'd stoop that low," he spat through his teeth "you sick excuse for a warrior." with that, he bent his sword down, and pinched a certain spot on its hilt, hearing a satisfying click as the blade slid out. With a grim smile, he raised the empty hilt. "Now let me show you why my family is renowned."  
  
Kalarus gathered himself for an attack despite his injured shoulder, but Loerik merely griiped the empty hilt and uttered the words Gabrievs had used for a millenia.   
  
"LIGHT COME FORTH!!!!" he shouted, and at once, drawing from his spirit, a brilliant beam of light surged from the hilt, taking the form of a blade. Before any other action could be undertaken by his opponent, he slashed the ground in front of him, producing a shockwave of power which struck Kalarus and sent him flying forty feet away, landing hard. After the resounding thud, he lay still.  
  
Loerik sighed, glad this battle was over, but knowing he had only beaten the other man uncounscious. He willed the blade to cease and it did at once, its great mystical energies dissolving. It was only as he reached for his real blade that he remembered the priestess, frogotten in the thrill of swordplay. He turned in her direction, and found her crouching, staring at him with wide eyes, her gaze switching from his hilt to his face.  
  
"Sword...Sword of Light..." he heard her mumble. With another sigh, he clicked the blade back into place.  
  
"Well how about you getting that friend of yours!" he looked around. Undoubtedly people had heard the short but furious fight, and would come to investigate. "Hurry, we gotta split." In the distance, more explosions from the sorceresses punctuated his words.  
  
The priestess shook her head as if to clear it, and then nodded, dashing into the tent. Soon a fearful voice called, and a soothing one began to talk. While this happened, he took his position before the tent flap, daring any mercenary to come his way. He felt good, really good. He had killed no one yet, and he had helped to save others. He felt the darkness around him recede a little.  
  
There was no doubt to his mind, he had regained his real purpose in life.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The villagers all were people he had known since he before he could remember. Marly the baker, the man who always seemed to have a little treat for the grubby runts who dashed and played around his shop. Farlow the hunter, who'd first taught him how to dress and cut up a bird. The mayor of the village, who always seemed positive about everything. He knew everyone and everyone knew him - unsurprising in as little a village as their was. Everyone knew the Jaderam family well.  
  
And know one raised even a single protest as Farlow and Marly dragged a gagged and bound Herala Jaderam and tied her struggling form to the pyre which would be her grave.If anything, glee and some kind of satisfaction rang through the eyes of the people there. There was no mercy in there.  
  
Why would there be? She had used magic, thereby showing herself to be a danger to nature. No matter that many in Dils let the magic user freaks alone. In Thornwood, they knew they had to be stern and obey the natural order of things.  
  
Only one didn't believe in this. Only one voice was againt it. Marcus Jaderam turned to his father Felge and cried. "Daddy, don't let them hurt mommy, please! She didn't do wrong! Don't let them!"  
  
His father remained silent, his face - which didn't ressemble Marcus's own - still as stone. Marcus heard the village elder intone a prayer to Ceipheed and the Five Dragon Kings to take Herala's soul once it was cleansed of Shabranigdu's influence. Bound to the pyre, Marcus' mother struggled against her bounds, but to not avail. The prayer ended, and torches were tossed to the oil-soaked wood stack. It caught fire and blazed at once.   
  
Marcus saw this, saw the horror on his mother's face, and screamed in denial, rushing forward in a frantic attempt to help. He didn't go far, however, before he was grabbed from behind. Through his tears, he saw his father holding him, looking down at him in what seemed to be - insane as it was - disappointment. Marcus struggled, but his seven-year old body was no match for the adult's strength.  
  
"Daddy, please, HELP HER!" he screamed as the fire reached Herala's clothes.  
  
"Silence boy!" his father cut him off angrily "Look! That demon witch got what she deserved! Bewitching demon!" he spat at the woman he had loved until days ago, when she had ahds no choice but to show her gift.  
  
Marcus's tears blurred his vision, and the spire faded, as did the villagers. Only sounds and smells remained. Cackles of laughter, shouts and curses for the witch, and the smell of burning wood.  
  
Then his mother, the fire burning away the gag, began to scream in undescribable agony-  
  
- And Marcus awoke with a start, whimpering, the bed sheet damp from sweat, his wet red hair clinging to his scalp. He lay there, reorienting himself, until he remembered where and when he was. He was ninteeen, staying at a country inn next to the Sailune - Alliance of Coastal States border, on his way to investigate the desperate plans of lumerian archmages and their relationship with the Hidden Lores. He was a sorcerer, a powerful one. He was safe, he was sound, and no one around him was burning.  
  
And yet, the smell of burning wood still seemed to hang around his nose, and the ear-splitting scream his mother had uttered rebounded through his soul. Unsurprising, that.  
  
He put an hand on his face. "Gods, gods, gods, gods..." he whispered. "Twelve years, and it still feels like yesterday."  
  
He remembered the grueling years with his father, the hate which had grown, his running away from home, and the many things which happened to him until he was first enlisted into the Atlas City Sorceror Guild. Years of stryfe, years of hatred. He had never been able to forget it, try as he might.  
  
He shook himself, pushing the pain and rage away as he'd always done, setting his mind clear for the day. Daylight was shinning behind the curtains of his window, announcing that he had slept sufficiently - this time around, at least. Feeling refreshed, he threw in his clothes - freshly washed as he'd paid good coins for that, and got down to eat something.  
  
The common room was relatively empty, so that he had the choice of tables. He picked one which had a nice view of the watermill and the surrounding pastoral lands, and carefully selected something from the short menu set on it. While waiting for his breakfast to arrive, he gazed around at the people sitting there. Two teenagers dressed for travel, with the frightened and triumphant look of lovers who'd eloped. Quaint but without importance to him. An old man sipping a clear brew from a bowl. Boring. Three middle-aged men in farmers clothes talking about the new baby of a neighbour's wife. Yeesh, little village people had such an active, entertaining life!  
  
It was then that he noticed a man sitting at a table near his, dressed in impeccable attire, priest-like garnments fringed with gold, toying with a staff. He had purple hair and, Marcus noted in mild irritation, a really fake, cheesy smile. He almost brushed off the man, but something held him back. He felt something from this one. Something very different. The man waved as he saw him looking and, uninvited, walked cheerfully to Marcus' table, sitting down on the other side.  
  
"Well, hello there!" the man exclaimed "I wasn't expecting to run into you here!"  
  
Marcus contained himself from making a rude comment at that. "Escuse me, but have we met?" he asked.  
  
"Never."  
  
The young sorceror went still at this and carefully considered whether it would be for the best in the grand scheme of things if he throttle this unnerving whacko. He decided against it at length, even though his face went still and fuming for a few moments. Ever cheerful, the man didn't seem to notice his fate had just been deliberated.  
  
"If we haven't met, then how can you expect to run into me? Are you a Guild member?"  
  
"Ah lets see. Hem...no...although I used to make frequent visits in a nice one in the Alliance."  
  
Marcus sighed in disgust. "Then why are we having this discussion at all?"  
  
The man's smile faded for a moment, and his closed eyelids snapped open to reveal piercing purple eyes. The change from mocking cheer to utter seriousness was astonishing, and Marcus couldn't check a slight flinch. "The reason is that Rezo is quite right. There is something going on in Lumeria."  
  
Suddenly Marcus was very interested. "Is it related to forbidden magic? Dark spells? Summoning? Hidden Lores artifiacts?" he pressed.  
  
The priestly man shook his head slowly. "My...employer...has been unable to see more than that. Lets just say this: its dangerous for you and it might be dangerous for us..."  
  
He blinked. "Us?" he asked, but the other man continued without heeding the question.  
  
"...so we don't want them to succeed. Just so you know, I'll be at hand to help you from time to time."  
  
"Help me? But why?"  
  
"The cheer returned, and the priest lay back lazyly, shaking a finger. "That is a secret!" He rose and bowed with a grin. "Remember: Lumeria, big things happening." a chuckle "And by the way, my name is Xellos! Ta-ta and see you later." And with that, he vanished.  
  
Not walked out, not flew out, just plain vanished. It was a power reputed to be held amongst the Hidden Lores, but the fact this power had been used so carelessly...it indicated that this Xellos had a good deal of magical powers. Marcus' mind raced. Lumerian Sorcerors were going to do something catastrophic it seemed. But what? And who were those people Xellos worked for?  
  
Such was his concentration that he never noticed when his breakfast arrived. Munching on it absently, eating eggs without tasting them, he couldn't help but feel that he had been thrust into a situation he had no control of. This mission might be a good deal more dangerous than he had thought it would be.  
  
He smiled at that. Fine by him. To Lumeria he was going still, to get his answers to this new riddle. He just hoped the answers wouldn't raised more questions. 


	4. Chapter Three

Those Who Came Before  
Chapter 3  
  
"We thought we were invincible, that we could beat anything, back in those days. And you know, I think that for a while we were an invincible team. But that's not the way it started. Oh no. In fact, only stubbornness brought us together, I think - we stumbled into something, and we were just too proud to turn tail and run away."  
  
-Hallia to her son Gourry-  
  
"That's the thing about us sorcerers: we're crazy, we know it, and Gods! Don't we just LOVE it!"  
  
-Fezra Inverse to a group of thugs  
  
  
Estarelle, the second city of the Alliance of Coastal States, was a treasure throve, in many ways. It had grown up from four small fishing villages at a point where two rivers, one flowing all the way from Elmekia to Ralteague, the other crossing from the Demon Sea to the Jekaran Mountains near the northern borders the nation. The centuries had served it well, and it had grown from extensive trade to become one of the most prosperous cities on the continent, surpassed only by Atlas City, Sailune Capital and Elmerkran in sheer concentrated well. With strong walls, clean streets and well-maintained buildings, it was a place people were proud of, and where one could make a nice bit in its extensive port markets.  
  
But that wasn't why Marcus was there. No. Although the idea of selling a bit of the stuff he had collected on his way - he had come across two bandit hideouts, man were those things easy to find! - was very alluring, he put it off for later. For he had read about the city of Estarelle back in Atlas, remembered that the city had once been the capital of a small magocracy. Said magocracy had been quite proficient at gathering enormous amounts of dangerous spells, and were openly, arrogantly gathering mercenaries to expand their reaches. They eventually grew so powerful that several guilds and kingdoms banded together in a short-lived alliance, sending an enormous force of soldiers, knights and sorcerers into the city, nearly razing it to the ground, killing its leaders and crushing the ambitious little realm.  
  
All of this didn't concern Marcus much, and he wouldn't be here now if there hadn't been mention of strange spells in the works when the allied forces stormed and set fire to the city - spells some found 'unconnected to the main flow of magic' Knowing the same thing had been said of some of the spells used against the Mazoku during the War of Resurrection, he had decided to see if records still existed of those events, anything which might give him some kind of clue as to what was going on. Time was getting shorter - a visit from that strange man - Xellos was it - had set off faint alarms in his head, alarms he couldn't explain. He just knew that things were serious now, not just a mission, and that he had to find some kind of trail or answer.  
  
That was why he had gone to the Verha Harwil Librarium, rumored to be one of the biggest concentration of dry tales and old histories to ever have seen the light of day. And so he set about searching in those old folklore tales, pulling old tomes recounting events he usually had no interest in. Still he persevered. He read an account about a great battle between two armies which became legend when both disappeared when a fog covered the battlefield. He heard of an entrapped woman who had been confined into a room of mirrors for atrocious crimes, to stay there until she died of madness. Other stories abounded - of heroism, of people disappearing, of greatly detailed battles, of pains, and legends, and famines, and triumphs. Estarelle had a long, rich history, and many people had contributed to telling it, to uphold it.  
  
"All very interesting, but I just don't have time for that!" he groaned out loud, uncaring if he upset any other readers amongst the tables around, or amongst the endless rows of old knowledge. He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Ceipheed, I'm not a very devout man, but I'd really not mind any lil' bit of help you might want to give me!"  
  
No help came. No wise advice suddenly appeared in his ears, much to his deception, but not his surprise. As always, Marcus Jaderam was on his lonesome, something he had gotten to like over the years but found rather tedious now. Being a loner - even a genius loner - lost its glamour when one could talk a problem over with someone else...  
  
"Do you have a problem son?"  
  
He almost leapt straight to the assuredly high ceiling of the Librarium as a voice seemed to answer his very thoughts. He certainly uncovered his eyes and sat up with a start, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged man who looked as surprised as he must, brown-haired with gray streaks, with a lined face and a somewhat stout - if not fat - disposition. He also noted he wore the blue-green tunic and breaches of the librarium. That calmed him. Just a person working there, no doubt, wondering why he was groaning and moaning, He felt himself flush with embarrassment.  
  
"Ah! Err...no thank you." he said "I was just thinking out loud, nothing to worry about."  
  
He was certain he had sounded sincere, but the man still looked at him, with a strange face, as if pondering something. Marcus wasn't one who flew in the face of people for so little - excepts when it was thugs or bandits, but he also had spent - he looked at one of the large windows of the place and saw that the sun was starting to decline - half-a-day of in fructuous research, and that, to a man used to quick result, was quite unnerving.  
  
Therefore, he was less than conciliatory when he asked the man what was the matter and did he do something wrong or some such thing. That seemed to snap the man out of his musings.  
  
"No, no, but...your outfit...are your a sorcerer?"  
  
He nodded at once, there was no use denying something so obvious. The man nodded to himself. "Are you with those who came last month? Did you forget anything for your trip?"  
  
He felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach as he heard those words, and a kind of surging elation. Here was something - a trail, something he could use - but the implications of it were rather dire. If what he had heard was correct, sorcerers had come and taken things, which would explain why he found nothing on magic or the fallen magocracy. That also means, however, that there had been documents of importance here.  
  
"No, I'm not with them." he said, thinking fast, putting his best bluff face on. "But I'm thinking of finding them. I have to tell them about something fast." Or rather, stopping them from doing something, but now wasn't the time to start sweating the details. In inwardly clenched his teeth as the man seemed to look rather confused.  
  
"I was so sure just now...but then...why are you here for?"   
  
"I...needed to look for things myself, I like old stories." he lied, then plunged ahead. "Do you know, by any chance, where they are going?"  
  
The middle-aged man looked around to see if their conversation wasn't disturbing anyone - small chance given the fact they'd kept their voices rather low - and took an awful long time before responding. Marcus was ready to go shake the man up to see if anything might tumble out verbally-speaking. He held his peace, however, until he saw the man brighten.  
  
"Now that I think of it, I do remember something!" he said in a rather relieved voice "They were planning some sort of trip...ruins or such...an old temple in southern Sailune." before Marcus could blow up about the fact that there were a heck of a damn lot of old temples in southern Sailune, another bit was forthcoming. "Err...Svalom...Svalor...Salvaloim Temple, that was it!"  
  
Marcus frowned. He'd heard the name before. Salvaloim Temple. Situated near the city of Greyhill, once occupied by elves in the study of arcane arts. The entrance was sealed by the elves themselves after the War of Resurrection. Rumored to contain...  
  
"Scrolls of Forbidden Lore!" he exclaimed, startling the older man and having many readers turn to him in annoyance. This time he didn't care about making a show of himself - he was full of the ramifications. The rumors, Rezo's orders, the strange priest, the alarms in his head - they all pointed to something terrible, something lumerian sorcerers were desperate to do now that they were so close to losing the war against Elmekia. Leaving the books and scrolls he had been studying in an haphazard mess on the table, he stood up, and stopped long enough to clap the bewildered man on the shoulder. "Thank you!" he said sincerely, and then he was nearly running to the exit, eager to cross the border and go to Sailune.  
  
Things were about to happen. And he had the intention to try and stop them.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
As the young, intelligent-looking young sorcerer sped away, the middle-aged man lost his befuddled expression, to be replaced by a crafty one which might have sent chills through even the hardest ruffian. This was the look of a schemer, the look of someone who liked to manipulate. And he had manipulated. Yes. They had been manipulating from the start.  
  
"The game is afoot, Marcus Jaderam. Good luck." he said with a grin, looking at the fast-retreating back.  
  
And without anyone being the wiser in the Librarium, he vanished.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Can't you keep her quiet?!? If any Elmekian patrol comes near us, we'll be hunted 'till we reach Sailune!"  
  
Berwen grimaced as the tall, muscular swordsman once again uttered his exasperation to Narie's whining. This, of course, wouldn't help, she knew it. But the fact that he uttered it more and more often and with greater irritation each time made her worry. Not so much that he would attack them, but rather that the outburst would definitely get one from Fezra, and the two would get one step closer to that direct confrontation which had been brewing for the past two weeks.  
  
It had been like this ever since the night she and Fezra had, with the help of Loerik, managed to free a good portion of the female slaves of the Black Horns Camp. The large group had had to fight its way out, with she and her friend firing spells, Loerik brandishing his sword with a skill that made him worth twenty knights, and some slaves who had grabbed weapons and joined in the defense. Things had quickly become pandemonium as fireballs flared and weapons clashed. Most of the mercenaries had been asleep, which had allowed them to escape, but not before the large group had splintered, until only a few of the defenders, lead by Loerik and Fezra, had escaped back to the forest.  
  
The group consisted, aside from Berwen, her friend and the dark-haired swordsman, had been two priestesses which went by the name of Hallia and Narie, and another named Zashtla, a woman nearly as tall as Loerik himself, and with quite a bit of swordsmanship in her. They had managed to evade the full, prepared search parties sent by the Black Horns, foiling them more then once and twice having to destroy a few of them with magic and steel. They would have been found and overwhelmed if it hadn't been for Loerik's incredible senses and the sorceresses' wood lore.  
  
Correction, she couldn't help but amend in the bitter voice which she felt more strongly these days, no matter how much she fought it. Fezra's wood lore. They almost never ask your opinion. Why would they? She doesn't need it, and why would he ask the lesser of the pair?  
  
She squashed that thought with force, but the emotion behind it lingered. The lesser one...that was what she was feeling like, so often.  
  
"Lets see you get raped, muscle boy!" Fezra inevitably exploded as Hallia, glaring silently, tried to soothe her whimpering, sobbing friend. "Maybe THEN you'll understand that your being a heck of a jerk! Or maybe your too dumb to notice?!?" She sneered at that, the sneer of contempt, the inimitable curving of lips that had always made her friend the flashier, stronger one, the one people felt strongly for. The one who always reaped things - be it glory or damnation. The one people cared to see.  
  
"That's the excuse you've BOTH been giving me for two weeks now, and this time, it just won't bloody work!" he swept an arm at the endless trees, wild bushed and flowers, the forested expanse which divided the Kingdom of Lumeria with the Kingdom of Sailune. "Maybe you've forgotten, but we're not out of the woods. No! We're smack in the middle of a war, on behind the battle lines of the people we've just alienated! And although I AM sorry that whatever happened to her happened, this damn whimpering is getting on my nerves!"  
  
"Getting on your nerves?!?" Fezra said in a hot voice that made Berwen cringe. She knew that tone. It meant trouble with a capital 'T'. "You getting to regretting helping us, eh big boy?!? Well if its that kind of a trouble to you, just get lost and find your own way! Its not like this group needs you with someone like ME keeping it safe."  
  
Loerik's eyes flared, and Berwen knew this had hit home. They had learned things from each other during the past two weeks, and it was clear that if the swordsman valued anything, it was his courage. Once again, the Inverse habit of hurting and aggravating people had kicked in and done a marvelous job. Sighing, she stepped forward to stop the intense argument.  
  
"Hey now Fezra, you should really-" she began, but then Fezra shot her a murderous look.  
  
"Don't tell me what I should do!" she snapped, and Berwen fell silent, shocked, as the two dark-haired opponents resumed their clash "I know what I should do, and its called 'kicking the butt of a dumb warrior!"  
  
Loerik's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. "Try it, Inverse. You might be in for a nasty surprise."  
  
The two stood there, poised, each bordering upon violence as two weeks of constant vigilance, of frayed nerves were coming to a head, seemingly unstoppable. Then the pot boiled over, but not the way Berwen had feared it would.  
  
Instead Hallia rose from the side of her sobbing friend, gathered energy and, before any of the two could register anything, threw it between them. The explosion was small and subdued - the power gathered had been extremely small - but it was enough for both to step back nearly a meter in surprise and turn to the standing Hallia. Standing, glaring green-haired Hallia who wore a look of contempt for them both.  
  
"Ceipheed help me, but sometimes you two are such idiots, BOTH OF YOU." She swung a glare at Loerik. "YOU. You've got no idea what it is to be a woman, you're too big to be raped by another being, so just shove your irritation away and leave Narie be!" the glare went to the astounded sorceress "And YOU, Fezra, what's that habit of yours, always picking a fight, always blowing up and making things worse?!? I've HAD it! With both of you! Why don't you both grow up or something, in Ceipheed's name?!?"  
  
Silence reigned as the two blinked at the angry priestess, then at each other, mouth agape. Berwen was certain her own jaw was just about to hit the floor. She knew that Hallia had spirit, but to see her just bug out like that, after having played peacemaker between the two arguing 'leaders' of the party, was something new.  
  
Finally Loerik broke the silence with a sheepish chuckle. "I guess...I kinda deserve that, huh?" he took a deep breath. "Okay...I'm sorry about this. I just...I'm just tired. And you're right, I guess...I HAVE been acting like...like a jerk." He scratched the back of his head, and looked at Hallia with pleading eyes. Another thing, that. Since when did a master swordsman plead like that?  
  
Hallia nodded at the man curtly, but part of her ire seemed to ebb away with the obviously sincere apologies. She then turned to look at Fezra, who had crossed her arms, frowning. "Fezra?"  
  
"What?" she asked. The priestess flicked her gaze from her to the swordsman, and she groaned. "No way! I'm not going to start apologizing to that-"  
  
"Fezra." she added, in such a disappointed voice that it spoke volume of the descending opinion the maiden had for the sorceress. And lack of respect was something no Inverse had ever been able to take.  
  
"Oh, okay!" she agreed through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry about calling you a coward, Loerik." her tone didn't seem completely sincere, but the swordsman by then knew that it was the best one could expect, and inclined his head in agreement. The fiery-tempered sorceress only humphed at this, and stalked back to Narie, who was calming down, coming out of her pain-filled haze a little. Gods, Berwen whispered inwardly, what did those filthy mercenaries do to her?  
  
She wasn't sure that she wanted to know, was taken with another event which touched her that much deeper - Fezra's dismissal. They were coming on more and more often now that her friend had Loerik to argue with and Hallia to talk to. It was as if their presence had...diminished Berwen in Fezra's mind, that she was being weighed and increasingly discarded. She didn't want to believe it, especially after all the years they had been friends, but something tugged at her, not letting go. Hadn't she become the fifth wheel, the shy sorceress, the one no one wanted to talk to. Zashtla, even gone to scout the environs, seemed to have a greater impact. Even Narie, weak and sobbing, acquired herself more attention, more sympathy.  
  
Was she becoming a nobody? Was she losing everything?  
  
The possibility scared her, and so she sat, musing gloomily, fighting off the dire impressions the days had given her, the fear and the bitterness rising in her, until the brown-haired, muscular warrior-woman came back for her survey and declared the area clear of patrols. She barely heard the words exchange, blindly followed when the group began traveling again, trailing behind. Not one of them turned to see if they followed. No one seemed to care.  
  
Not even Fezra.  
  
Inwardly, the doubts and repressed bitterness grew in strength.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"I've no time for this, Mellinius. Just toss it in a corner."   
  
"But sir, this is a special dispatch from the King himself. It states that the Elmekian forces are quickly approaching the capital, and needs the help of our guild!"  
  
"I know of the needs of this narrow-minded old fool!" Dalomir Eshkraly finally spat, looking up angrily from his arcane writings. His eyes gave off an eerie light that Mellinius did not quite like.  
  
They were seated in the highest tower of the Eshkraly Castle, in Dalomir's private reading room. A small window showed rays of sunlight and the cool, brisk mountainous air of the region to the two occupants. From it, they could see parts of the city of Tillam, the market district, residential areas and, farther in the distance, the stone wall which had always served as a secondary defense to this town, which had always had a strong guild of sorcerers. Of course it was hard to judge since he saw no people from this height, but the city had a feel of calm and contentment, probably one of the few places in the entire kingdom where such feelings prevailed.  
  
When news had come of an Elmekian invasion, the people had been quite ready to send anything they could to the crown to aid in the desperate war effort - be it horses, food, weapons or men. Many of the officials even mounted diplomatic expeditions to Sailune, expeditions which only ended in complete failure. Already a militia was being armed, and more volunteers were presenting themselves to enlist in the Royal Army. With its large population, Tillam and its environs could have sent a fair number of troops to aid in the defense of the country.  
  
But one man had stopped all that. Dalomir, the hereditary head of the Tillam Guild and the most influential man in the city, convinced others that the best way to discourage the Elmekians was to fortify each city, make a fortress out of each. The buildup, he had said, should serve to make the city impregnable. To further support his words, he showed a fake order that the city might have to be used as a secondary capital if Lumeris was to fall to enemy hands. It was a rather hollow notion, since the king was too stubborn to leave his capital no matter what entailed. But the others in the city council drank in his words and believed him - as they had ever had when he spoke.  
  
So the city began to fortify itself, its larger and larger militia standing still, not budging, never venturing much beyond the high walls. To secure matters even more, guild members had worked hard at finding and intercepting messages from the king, other guilds, and the war council. It was Mellinius who had to read each one and tell of them to Delomir, for the man wouldn't be bothered with it. And so he read of the struggles, the assaults and the defeats, as month after month the Lumerian Royal Forces had given ground to the immense Elmekian war machine. Now the situation was becoming critical, as the remaining armies of the kingdom were rallying for a last stand before falling back to the capital. Hearing this, and then seeing Dalomir's disinterest, finally ignited the fire which had been smoldering for so long.  
  
"Sir!" he said in a voice which had lost much of its proper respect "The Kingdom's forces are exhausted. The imperials are overrunning position after position, taking village after villages and reducing strongholds to rubble. This message...this message says the King has ordered every available forces to concentrate at the Ferion Hills in order to face the onslaught. They will need our forces sir!"  
  
Dalomir waved an hand. "Even our entire forces added to the Royal Army wouldn't make one bit of difference in the end. You know as well as I that the enemy forces outnumber our by more than a factor of three, with ample supplies, a lot of sorcerers and better weaponry. Do you truly think that our army was ever a match for the Elmekians? Only Sailune and Zefielia have better armies, and they have both refused to help us." he made a disdainful noise.  
  
"At least we would be doing SOMETHING!" he said through clenched teeth, his patience snapping. He had been loyal to the guild and Dalomir because he was, when all was said and done, a sorcerer. But the thought of just sitting on his hands while his realm was being torn apart was too much for him to contemplate.  
  
He had expected many things to follow up from the older, influential man after the outburst. Anger, dismay, perhaps, the Gods willing, some sort of guilt. He hadn't expected, really hadn't, to hear the man chuckle heartily. His anger grew, but with it a sort of perplexed fear. Was Dalomir crazy, was this why he was willing to let the Kingdom go down in ruins?  
  
After a long, soft laugh, the powerful sorcerer, resplendent on satin and silk robes, wearing his auburn hair well on his aristocratic, intelligent face, looked him in the eye, still full of mirth. "Do something! Why, what an emotional outburst! Calm down, my young friend! I've never had the intention of abandoning the realm to those foul Elmekians. I intend to help the best way I can."  
  
"But...then..." Mellinius stuttered. A raised hand stopped him.  
  
"Patience, my friend, patience! I assure you, I will do something, something which I think will allow the kingdom to ultimately win!"  
  
Oh, he wanted to believe it. Dalomir was so strong of voice, his tone so catching, that you wanted to believe anything he said. But still he doubted, still the fire remained. Three years of helplessly reading the losing war his realm was struggling in had left marks on the trust he put on his own guild. "But...but the realm...the kingdom is losing. You said yourself we have no hope of defeating the Elmekians!"  
  
Dalomir stared at him calmly, smiling. "No right now no. But we would if I find what I'm looking for, and I should receive something that will help me greatly!"  
  
"What is that? What could help us against so many?"  
  
"Why, power from Forbidden Lores Spells, of course!"  
  
There was barely enough time for Mellinius to really absurd the rather astounding statement - the Forbidden Lores, no less than that! - before steps were heard from the stone stairs leading to the reading room. Out poked a head, made of a soft roundness, strong cheeks and a reddish glow to the skin giving the man entering the look of a child more than a man. The body itself, although covered mostly by the usual sorcerer cape, was small, frail, and slightly pudgy-looking, finalizing the harmless appearance.  
  
But all of those who knew the innocent-looking, child-bodied sorcerer knew that it was a all appearances, nothing more. The sorcerer's name was Jomekin, and of all the men Mellinius had seen in his life, he was the one he feared the most. Powerful, given to strange mood swings, the sorcerer was highly competent, but also possessed of an obsessive streak which knew no bounds.  
  
"You...!" he gasped out as the man stood before them. He couldn't find words to say more. The childish, intelligent gaze looked up at him, seemingly highly amused by the reaction, then gave Delomir an half-bow which seemed almost mocking, but nothing more could be asked of the man.  
  
Delomir actually smiled and rose, his eyes alight with expectation. "Ah, Jomekin, at last! I was beginning to think you might have found the task too hard for yourself."  
  
"Nothing is too hard for me, sir." the child-like face uttered in a squeaky, cute voice. Everything about this man's exterior hides the true interior, the rather overwhelmed sorcerer thought as he heard it.  
  
"Indeed, indeed. So me: have you found the location?" The eyes now seemed to glow with need and hope, a sickening and yet fascinating sight. In response, Jomekin grinned, a grin that belied the obsessions and strange moods of the man - the smile of a man who had been overwhelmed, at least partly, by his own power.  
  
"The piece we need, the knowledge we seek, is hidden in southern Sailune. So say the ancient texts and in Orlumma's Accounts of the War of Resurrection."  
  
"Good! Good!! Now that we know the place, and have gathered all that we need, there is but one thing left to do - unseal the temple! That, I know how to do." So exhilarated was Delomir that for a few moments, the one listening to the situation felt his mood lighten. Hope was there, but distorted. The distortion he felt calmed his ardor.  
  
"Sir." he dared to venture at last. "What's there in Sailune?"  
  
The older spell caster looked at him with narrowed, surprised eyes. "Why, the salvation of our kingdom, my friend. Nothing less! Only small trip away. Ready yourself. We go now to Sailune - to achieve our goals!"  
  
Despite the fact this had been what he had wanted to hear for so long, despite his curiosity and growing hope, Mellinius found that sentence strange, hollow, hiding something. Still he would go, to see if his people would be saved by Delomir's plan.  
  
And ACT if the older sorcerer had led him astray all this long while!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Philionel de Sailune had a lot to think about. Quite a bit too much, indeed, as far as he was concerned. Trudging along on a dusty trail acting as a link between two agricultural villages, he found himself with time to think - more than should be healthy. And so he thought, and found many things wanting.  
  
The days at the castle had gone from bad to worse. The King had been adamant in keeping the borders closed off to prevent massive arrivals of refugees, and had even ordered the garrisons to use force if such means were deemed necessary to stop frantic attempts to enter. The news which later came of over fifty people dying as they tried to fight past one such garrisons had sickened him, and he decided to slip out of the stuffiness and rigidity of the court and the fops which inhabited it permanently.   
  
Before he knew it, he was back on the road, wearing an old worn tunic and breeches, sturdy leather gloves and boots, a backpack containing spare clothes and some other utilities, and a broad blade in a worn leather scabbard. With his strong-lined, squarish face and his tussled black hair, Phil knew he looked the part of a bear-like peasant. Only the cloak slung over his shoulders belied quality, and that would be seen only to the very pointed observer.  
  
He stopped and inhaled a lungful of air, heavy with the scent of pine and the comfortable freshness of late spring. This was the life he liked - to walk amongst the people and find what their needs were, to use his resources to bring charity and justice to those far-away villages who knew neither, not paying attention to hypocritical fops who knew nothing of the outside world, or agonizing over a wedding he neither wished nor had control over.  
  
Weeks of firm walking, ever southward, had brought him back in contact with the people. He discussed with them, drank with some men who had gone through a hard day at one place, helped repair a damaged cart at another, spent a day helping an older farmer with his fields, and even once went to fetch a town midwife for an impromptu birth. His height and musculature made it easy to work with people, and his honest demeanor made it easy to talk. And listen.  
  
And through all of this he had listened, learning. He believed that justice must be served - it was the deciding factor in his life, the thing to which he was utterly dedicated. But to be just meant having at least some wisdom that didn't come from royal tutors or the books and opulence he and his brothers had been raised in. He needed to know those who would serve him, who would pay the taxes and the expenses which allowed Sailune to become a very preeminent power, so he could serve THEM better when his time came. If he could get past that foul wedding and this atrocious war business, that is...  
  
He barely heard the scream for help, muffled as it was, but his senses had been sharpened from his outings, to a dangerous level. The voice was feminine, clearly in distress, which ignited him and propelled him into action. Quickly asserting where the noise came from, his long, powerful legs carried him there with swiftness and speed. He stepped off the road, and entered a clump of trees. There he saw something which was unmistakable.  
  
There were three of them. All of them of medium height and built, wearing swords and dirty clothes. Their disheveled appearance, and the twisted gleam in their eyes told him everything he had to know even before he took in the rest of the scene. One of the men was crouching over a peasant woman, about Phil's age, perhaps a little older, working to undo the lace which held her dress. Another held the woman's arms, leering as she frantically struggled. The third man was standing, laughing at the scene, something which fed the crown prince's ire even more.  
  
Philionel was a staunch pacifist. Or rather that was his goal in life, the kind of personality he wanted to have. The problem was that he was anything but, and knew it. It shamed him at times, the fact that he sometimes could use violence to achieve his ends. It clashes strong against his ideals. Usually. But not this time. This was aggression, a rape, something so lowly he felt dirty just thinking of the notion. This time he didn't even try to hide his violent streak. Rather, he embraced it.  
  
Still, justice being what it was, he felt forced to give the monstrous men an ultimatum. "Release this woman at once, or face pain at my hands!!" He bellowed. He had meant it to sound chivalrous and fair, but the tone had come out hard and angry. So be it, he could live with that.  
  
The standing man turned and looked at him in surprise, then in some consternation. Phil almost grinned. Obviously used to bullying, aggressing women and weaker people, he found himself outmatched by the prince's sheer girth and fearsome appearance. However the effect didn't last long, and as soon the one crouching over the woman had risen, a cocky grin crossed the unwashed face, showing yellow rotten teeth.  
  
"Ya really shouldn't have come here, chap. That was a big mistake." he sneered, drawing his sword, followed by his companion. "But we're in a good mood here, and if ya git right here we won't hurt ya."  
  
That was blatant lie from a blatant liar, and Phil only felt even angrier. "I gave you a fair warning. I suggest you heed it and leave this woman alone. Now."  
  
"And if we don't, chap?"  
  
"Then I'll take measures of my own to make certain you do release this woman. Now OBEY ME!"  
  
The tone of his voice was frightening, he knew, for the two brigands actually faltered a moment. It didn't last long, however, before the one who had been busy undoing the woman's vestment snarled something and charged, his blade thrust in front of him. By that time Philionel was ready. He had known it would come to this, and only his pride and ideals had made him try to settle things with words.  
  
He didn't draw his sword, for he was an ordinary swordsman at best and didn't want to kill even that type of waste. He stood squarely to meet the first blade, but sidestepped at the last second, ramming his clenched fist into the exposed villain's gut with all the considerable might in his arm. The effect was immediate, as the man's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, his tongue flayed here and there and he fell, the sword dropping from a nerveless hand. The bandit crumpled holding his stomach tightly, gasping for rare air. Phil knew that he wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon, but never gave him much thought. He still had one bandit to take care of.  
  
The second man was a better swordsman, although he lacked the ease and training of a real soldier. His trusts had power and speed, and the traveling price had to dodge many a blow, sometimes narrowly. Still he pressed on, staying within range, taking the risk of stabbing to have the man within reach of his hand.  
  
In the end he did it. Not with any grace, not even with a bit of style, but he managed to feint strike to the right and caught the forearm holding the blade - and thrust it aside. Before the man could recover from having his defense wide open, the prince's other arm thrust upward, in a slamming maneuver under the chin.  
  
"Peacemaking Uppercut!" he cried in satisfaction just before he hit. A silly name, he knew, but he couldn't help but to indulge himself to that quirk. After all, he liked the man, and it worked. The second ruffian flew up and backward, landing in a thud and heap, and not moving. Two were down. Nodding to himself in relative satisfaction, he turned his attention to the last of the bandit.  
  
The last man was shocked by the turn of events, it was clear in this. He looked at his fallen comrades and then to Phil with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The captive took the opportunity to struggle, managing to bite him and push him away. He made a move to stop her, snapping out of his shock, but the prince was there in two strides, slapping the hand away, and then grasping the man by the tunic, holding him up with no effort so that he could meet the frightened man to eye level. He had a speech for those occasions, a stern berating he reserved for normal evildoers. But rapists and cold murderers were something else entirely. As it was, he only felt coldly angry.  
  
"Leave." he said in warning, letting the man fall. The last bandit didn't go and try to test his luck, turning away and running like an hyena with its tail on fire. He looked at the remaining ones - one was out cold, the other still gasping for air - and then looked at the peasant girl. She was looking at him with undecided eyes, and he almost sighed out loud. The physique had its bad points as well as its good.  
  
"Do not worry yourself." he said as gently as he could make his voice go. "I am no bandit. I only heard sounds and came to investigate. "What happened here? This road is usually well-patrolled."  
  
She looked at him with wide eyes still, but at least his words seemed to gain a bit of her trust, for which he was glad. "I...there's been...lotsa attacks...'cause lots a soldiers are gone away."  
  
He nodded his head grimly. Yes, that would make sense. His father had pulled much troops and overflowed the borders with men, leaving the inner boundaries less defended than they should be. What a warped way to do things, he mused, before holding his hand to the peasant woman, who looked at it with a certain degree of suspicion.   
  
"Please tell me more. I will escort you to your home." he said amiably.  
  
And she took it. Why not? He might be dangerous looking, but what could be better as a guardian?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Ah, life is good! No one chasin' us, food in our belly, and bandits just waiting right around the corner as dessert."  
  
Fezra's statement should have surprised, even appalled Loerik. After all, the situation they had just emerged from had been awkward, frightening, and decidedly dangerous. But after nearly a month with the strange, lively sorceress, all he managed was a grunt of disgust. It registered on her, and she turned to the rest of their group, spearing him with a look which made him quite queasy, despite his experience and his skill.  
  
"You gotta problem, Lowrik?" she asked with a dangerous edge to her voice. Beside her, Berwen sighed for the hundredth time in that day alone.  
  
"Its LOErik, not LOWrik, Fez." she said tiredly.  
  
"Whatever!! So what's got you all bumped up THIS time, big guy?"  
  
Incensed by the constant nagging, the swordsman was about to tell the sorceress EXACTLY what got him 'bumped up', but before he could launch a strike, a voice stopped everything cold.  
  
"Can't you just STOP squabbling for once?!?" We've been at this since...since we've begun this directionless journey to nowhere! I don't care how, but you two will just have to shut up, make peace, do something that's NOT a quarrel!!!"   
  
Hallia again. Ever since the incident in the forest, where he and Fezra had almost gone for each other's throat, the green-haired priestess had made a point to play peacekeeper, and had often been backed up by Zashtla, who was almost a match for the hot-tempered sorceress in glares, and Narie, who had, for the last few days, emerged from her shell. She was there now, nodding to Hallia's words, although she said none of her own. Zasthly, for her part, looked fierce and somewhat angry - which meant nothing, since she always looked like that. He sighed again, in resignation, knowing he had to make concessions or Fezra would die before calming down.  
  
"Fine, fine. I'll keep it down." not that he'd said anything, actually, but it defused the tension in the air. The sorceress sniffed, then muttered something which looked SOMEWHAT like an APPROXIMATION of what he'd told, then resumed walking quickly, eyes gleaming again at the idea of bandits blowing up and treasure being found.  
  
He slacked his pace so that he was soon walking beside the group's peacekeeper, ignoring Narie' instinctive flinch at having a man close to her personal space. He understood that the girl had been through a lot, that she'd been used like a toy by a man Loerik wished he would never meet again. He in fact had come to appreciate the spirit which was desperately trying to emerge from the trauma. But heck with it, he wasn't going to walk on eggshells every time he got near the priestesses because he had the obvious, born-with-it traits of a rather tall man! Exchanging a sign with Zashtla, he leaned down to whisper in Hallia's ear.  
  
"Fezra is a selfish brat!" he finally hissed. In response was an amused smirk.  
  
"Tell me something I don't know!"  
  
He frowned. "Then why don't you just tell HER to calm down. Its almost always her fault we quarrel, after all."  
  
She gave him the exasperated look he knew well, taking on the shift and posture of a lecturer. Every time she did that he felt like he was a slow, dull-minded fool being shown the ways of those considered highly intelligent. From most people, Loerik would have gone into a rampage at the condescension.  
  
"Now, you know that Fezra never listens when we only target her!" she huffed as if it should be obvious - and it probably was, at that. "If we don't tell her someone else is responsible too, she'll never want to apologize. In fact, she might become worse than she is now. Maybe you've forgotten, but while we had just struggled the Sailune borders - "  
  
"Okay, okay!" he snapped "I get the darn point!" he fell silent, searching for words, finally asking the question that'd been burning him for days now. "You...you want to go home, eh?" he finally asked. She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. He had hit right in the center, dead on. Not bad for a slow-thinking swordsman! "Don't bother, I can see it on your face. You DO want to return. Why? Is it because you have people there?"  
  
She bit her lip, nodding after a moment. "Yes, you're right, I want to go back. My father and my brother, I'm not sure they're still alive. They were supposed to hold of an Elmekian army, than go right for the capital to reinforce it! Oh, I wish I was with them!" She closed her eyes for a moment in anguish. Seeing this, Loerik felt understanding. Did a day go by without him thinking about his family, lost to him for now, perhaps forever? He didn't think so. He uncomfortably patted Hallia, and she opened her eyes, giving him a saddened smile which had always had an effect on him, for some reason.  
  
"What would be the point?" Zashtla asked somberly. "Even if we COULD pass the frontier again, which I doubt, what could we achieve? Go and help the Lumerian army? Don't be foolish. The Elmekian forces have ten times the manpower at least, they're better equipped, they have more sorcerers than the Lumerians. We couldn't reach the capital now, much less find your family!"  
  
Loerik turned his head around to look at his fellow sword-wielder. "That's enough, Zashtla! You think we don't -"  
  
"Loerik." He looked down to find her smiling at him, still sad, and yet with something else he couldn't decipher. "Thanks for supporting me, but its alright. I've decided that-"  
  
What Hallia had decided stayed in the immediate realm of his immense ignorance, for at that moment an explosion was heard. Close, quite shaking the ground. And with the explosion came voices, many voices, some in pain, more panicking. He and Zashtla had they're sword out within an heartbeat, but neither had the time to assess more of the situation before Fezra, five meters ahead, shrieked in surprise and rage.  
  
"NO WAY! I'M NOT LETTING ANOTHER SORCEROR GET MY LOOT!" she screamed, and sped off, Berwen on her heels. With a curse, Loerik hefted the Sword of Light and began to run. Why did he feel like something bad was going to happen?  
  
That was quite simple: because Fezra was angry!   
  
  
Marcus Jaderam, for his part, was having a blast. Literally, as he hurled fireball after fireball at clumps of fleeing bandits. He had been on the road for many days, desperate to reach his destination, when he had come upon this den occupied by many bandits. Nearly a hundred were gathered there, preparing a raid to the nearby villages. It had been more than enough for him to step in.  
  
The young, arrogant sorcerer had once been taken prisoner and mistreated by bandits once, before learning magic. He had learned first hand how depraved and deranged this breed of people could be. Consequently he didn't like them. Not one bit. Normally believing you don't need to hit too hard to down an opponent, firm with moderation in using aggressive magic, he had no compunction on injuring many of that ilk right now.  
  
Besides, it was great stress relief, and boy had he needed something like that for a while now!  
  
He laughed in glee as another of his spells caught a band of bandits, scattering them. "You guys should just quit and tell me where you're keeping all of your gold." he grinned "If you're real nice about it, I might leave some to you." Not that he had the intention to, but sometimes they were more helpful that way. This time, however, only moans answered him. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay, if you want it that way..."  
  
"FLARE ARROW!!!"  
  
He had felt the build-up of magic a mere moment before he heard the shout, and only quick reflexes and a natural attunement with magic saved him from bad burns. Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw a streak of crimson coming his way. He raised his hands in front of him, quickly summoning his power.  
  
"BALUS WALL!" he intoned at the last moment, and the arrow of flames struck the barrier he had erected. That had been too close. He had actually felt the impact in his bones. He turned angrily in the direction of the attacker, and saw a sorceress.  
  
But what a sorceress. Beautiful, elegant, with a face - although angry - which he could dream on for hours. Romantic thoughts flicked through his head, and he grinned at her. He opened his mouth to ask what he'd done to anger the woman, but she screamed long before he could utter a sound.  
  
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING BEATING ON -MY- BANDITS?!?" she shrieked.  
  
Suddenly, for some reason, Marcus didn't feel he was having a blast anymore. But that girl was sure cute! 


	5. Chapter Four

Those Who Came Before  
Chapter 4  
  
"That the Elmekian-Lumerian War, which lead to the social imbalance and over taxation of the former and to the annexation of the latter, can with ease be said to have been a cornerstone of recent events which lead to the political balance active now - and most probably for years to come - is easy to note. However, what many an historian seem to gloss over is the very real fact that this was not only of social import, but that it was the first time in centuries that the Forbidden Lores have seen usage. This magical Pandora's Box was opened, and although effects are no yet to be seen, this writer shivers to think what could happen if other mages even more nefarious than the ones who unleashed them were to lay hands on such power."  
  
-Rezo the Red Priest, dictated Year 987 after the War of Resurrection  
  
"I don't see your name written anywhere 'round here, sister. So how 'bout turning right around and go bother someone else?"  
  
If it hadn't been for the fact that they feared - rightly at that - the magical punishment which would burst forth from the angry sorceress, Fezra knew that her companions might have told her that she was taking this a little far and that the red-haired, arrogant, self-centered, stupid, moronic little...ok calm down...sorcerer was actually in the right here. He had attacked the bandit's lair first, and so she didn't look particularly bright ranting like this about the unfairness of it all.  
  
Fezra Inverse was as far from stupid as could be. She easily saw how things were. However she was an Inverse before anything else, and that family of wizards were known to be three things not matter the person or the differences in personality: very powerful in magic, very greedy of gold and goods and most dangerous to those who stand in their way, were extremely selective about right and wrong. Meaning that when they wanted something, they were in the right, period.  
  
The others knew that, which was why no one - not Loerik, not Hallia and CERTAINLY not Berwen - said a word. And also why she was stuck in this rising shouting match with that man who had cheated her of her loot and her fun. That he saw fit to dismiss her like some nuisance only added fuel to the fire.  
  
"Listen, you third-rate smart ass! You better behave yourself if you want to keep your pretty face intact!" she shouted, quickly mounting to physical threats. The pretty face in question seemed less than impressed by the threat, however.  
  
"I'm not afraid of some bimbo who can't even gauge the strength of her opponent. These are mine!" he sneered in response, negligently firing a fireball at the fleeing bandit. "And is you want to break my face up, cutie, I hope you got power to back it up..."  
  
"How dare you!" she growled. Never had anyone used that kind of tone with her! No one! She incidentally felt the building of a protective shield from farther off and realized the others had gone to weather this from a safe distance. Some friends!  
  
"...cuz right now, all I see is so much hot air from an immature girl throwing a temper tantrum!" he finished with a smile that seemed even more mocking than before.  
  
And that was what did it. The word HOT AIR seared through Fezra's mind, past all sensible thoughts, and she saw red. She didn't care about the bandits anymore, didn't care about the loot, didn't care about anything except to show this incredible JERK the doom he'd unleashed on him. She called upon her powers, and saw the man in front of her shift more defensively. He'd seen the change. Good.  
  
"If you want to get burned that badly, pretty boy, you got your wish! Come and get it! FLARE ARROW!"  
  
The magical fire streamed towards the man, who invoked his own powers to cast. "FREEZE ARROW!" he bellowed, and a bluish projectile impacted Fezra's attack, neutralizing it. But she was already into her second incantation, manipulating the magic to her will. She put her hands in front of her as the other man staggered back from the near-miss.  
  
"BURST RONDO!" And streams of small, quick projectiles converged on her target. She expected him to throw a magical barrier around him to nullify it, exposing himself further, but he surprised her. Stooping at the moment she cried her spell, he lifted the remnant of a table which had belonged to the bandits and hurled it at the spheres, which obliterated it but left him intact. As soon as he had hurled it, he launched an Elmekia Lance at her as he ran towards her, and she barely had time to erect her own shield. But by the time she could do anything, he was already upon her, his hand flickering with energy. She tried to dodge him, but he was too close, and managed to touch her forearm.  
  
"MANO BOLT." he said, and the energy tore through her, nearly paralyzing her and making her cry out. Still, she was Fezra Inverse, and came from a family of people who had been able to take a hot and still stand. She didn't give him time to hold her in his grip. Fighting the pain, she summoned and shoved a light spell in his face. He immediately recoiled by sheer reflex, and she used that time to gather her thoughts. Away. She must go away. Only a few moments.  
  
Summoning her will she brought the necessary power to her. "RAYWING." she gasped, and immediately flew away, upward, towards the sky. There she saw him holding a hand to his eyes. It wasn't long before the effect faded, but by the time he flew himself to where she was, the effect of the Mano Bolt on her body had passed. As they stared at each other, she couldn't help but smile viciously, but also genuinely.  
  
"Nice trick back there! Maybe you're not that bad after all!"  
  
"Same to you, cutie. Same to you." he answered with a more winning smile.  
  
"Lets get to it!"  
  
"Right at you!"  
  
Then began a battle that happened very rarely indeed. Fezra and the red-haired man went at each other with all of the magical strength within them. The sky shook and thundered as ice attacks and fire attacks streaked here and there. Fireballs impacted on magic shields, wind blasts buffeted the area, burst of magical energy flew here there and everywhere around as two sorcerers battled fiercely, testing their limits at the expense of the terrain around them.  
  
Fezra had never felt so annoyed, so terrified and so excited at the same time. She was the strongest Inverse to have walked the Known World since three centuries at least. She had outpaced all of her teachers, had won countless magical duels. No one had ever been able to stand toe-to-toe with her. No one had been able to give as good as he or she got when she wanted to win at all costs. Like she did right now.  
  
But this man was holding up, giving as good as he got, dodging spells, erecting barriers and using magic at a rate she had never seen. No opponent had ever come close to him in sheer power, no one had ever managed to make her find with all she had. It infuriated her that someone existed who could. Apart from Rezo the Red Priest, she had thought herself beyond all of the others. That illusion was shattered.  
  
But amidst the indignation, amidst the rising fury, there was still this excitement. To meet an equal, after all of her adventures, someone who wasn't awed by her magical prowess, was invigoration, it stirred something deep within her breast, something which flickered and stayed.  
  
The fight continued long, an eternity it seemed to her. Magical spells burst the surrounding countryside asunder, leveling anything in its path. The power involved - even though neither had had the time to call upon the mightiest spells available to black magic - could have killed even a Dragon Lord, she presumed. Yet she was standing, and he was standing, and the only sign of life she could register was the protection field, holding on because of one sorceress and two shrine maidens putting every bit they had into it.  
  
However, the time finally came when she couldn't hold it anymore. Her arms tingled and strained painfully, her entire being shook with fatigue, and she felt - for the first time in her life - the magic slipping through her fingers. In front of her, the man was sweating, his red hair disheveled and damp, gradually sinking to the blasted surface, swaying visibly. She felt he had a good idea, for she felt about to fall down, and from the height she was it wouldn't be good.  
  
So Fezra let go of the Raywing and Levitation spells, sinking to the surface. Only pride prevented her from falling to her knees upon contact, Instead she shakily stared at the man - that annoying, exciting man - and managed a rough, trembling smirk.  
  
"Y-y-you're...n-not bad!" she exclaimed in a gasp. The other's eyelids were dropping, but he nodded at her.  
  
"I...know...you're...pretty good...yourself." he too then managed a tired smile. "I've...never...met...someone...as strong as you. It was...great...to fight you..."  
  
And before she could answer that - if her tired brain had managed coherence enough to answer, the man slumped forward, and fell to the ground, unconscious. She stared at him for many moments before realizing the obvious.  
  
She had won. She could rest now.  
  
She raised her fist upward, ignoring its shaking, and made a bold 'V'.  
  
"Never...underestimate...an Inverse...pal!" she gasped in triumph.  
  
And then she passed out, knocked out cold. And feeling happier in this than she had in many other instances for a long time.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Phillionel de Sailune had traveled far more than he should have in his eighteen years of life. During those voyages - that only increased his father's subtle scorn for him - he had seen many sights, fought brigands and gone face-to-face - and hand-to-hand - with more monsters than he cared to count. He also had been on adventures long enough so that, as he was walking back from the farm girl he had just saved her house, he knew the tremors which shook the earth under his feet were anything but natural.  
  
They had a feel to them. Magic. That was it. Intense magic. He had once seen two sorcerers fight in a duel and it had felt similar. But this was bigger. Much, much bigger. Which meant...which meant two sorcerers of the highest level were either fighting each other or an unimaginable monstrosity!  
  
Both thoughts were decidedly alarming, and it caused the young, muscular and not-very-handsome prince to switch his pace from walking to charging in an instant. Trees breezed by as his large legs took him down the road at a staggering speed. All he needed to do was find were the two were fighting, and either help or deal with them. Yes, that was all good.  
  
He never had to strain his tracking skills. The trees soon parted to show him a scene of utter desolation. As he looked around with horrified eyes, he saw that magic had seared nearly everything in a very large area. The ground was scrapped clean of trees, bushes, and grass, leaving only a few protruding rocks, the odd burnt tree stump, the few remains of what had seemingly once been a structure - to what purpose it was now impossible to tell - and the thick clouds of dust. Nothing would grow here for a long time.  
  
What an affront to Sailune! This couldn't go unpunished!  
  
Frantically, he looked around for clues to whoever had done this, instead of meting out fair but stern justice on them, pacifist ways be damned this time! However the area seemed deserted, he scoured it, picking remains here and there, shivering as cracks in the ruined ground showed the power that had been used here. Nothing else was forthcoming, however. Beginning to feel somewhat defeated, he was about to turn back from his search and look elsewhere when he heard voices.  
  
Blinking, astonished, he strained to hear, to locate who was talking, and finally saw where those speaking were. Under a rocky ledge were a number of people, walking and stooping over prone forms. Not knowing if these were the defilers - justice demanded he doesn't attack people who could, after all, just be travelers investigating or such - he approached them cautiously, until the mutterings he heard could be comprehensible. Hiding behind a large rock, he listened closely.  
  
"...don't care that not one got killed. We could've! And all because Fez and another wise-guy sorcerer decided to go on a full-blown ego trip!." A rough female voice said in frustration.  
  
"You're right, but we're not dead and they didn't force us to stick around, did they? We chose to stay and take part of the responsibility." Said another female voice, gentler and yet more commanding.  
  
"I don't think Fezra intended to go this far. She usually..." a third voice interjected swiftly.  
  
"Who gives a copper coin what Fezra usually does!" a male voice this time grumbled with a spiteful undertone. "She let her damn pride get in the way of common sense, and know we have a chunk of cleared forest. Cleared! Man! Its completely burned out! And we let this happen, damn, dung, and bloody bones!"  
  
Phillionel nodded to himself. Satisfied. Obviously, these people had something to do with what had occurred here, and he would be damned if he let these foul curs escape justice. He felt his blood boil at the thought! To think these miscreants though that they could ravage his country, the lands he had sworn an oath to protect! It was too much! It was beyond endurance! It had to be remedied at once!  
  
Carried by the wind of his righteous thoughts, Phillionel jumped on top of the rock, startling the tired people beneath it. He could see them well now. A brunette wearing sorcerer's garb and a young woman in dirty beige were hunched over the prone bodies of two other magic wielders - AHA! The curs in question! - while a slight woman with green hair and a muscular woman were arguing with a man dressed in armor and having the looks of a mercenary about him. Bandits probably! The thought fueled his course of action, and he pointed at them as they looked up, tensing and then blinking.  
  
"Foul brigands of unknown origins, dark spreader of misfortunes!" he intoned sternly to the stunned assemblage. "You have fouled the lands of Sailune and used dark arts to shape it to your will, but it will avail you not! I, Phillionel de Sailune, Prince and Heir, will cleanse you and your act with the strength and purity of justice." Doing that, he took a pose that he thought would incline those below to despair and beg forgiveness. If they did, he would be more lenient.  
  
Instead the three kept blinking up at him, until they turned to each other.  
  
"None of that makes sense." the man said, pointing at Phil and scratching his black hair with the other hand. The green-haired girl and muscular woman both nodded at him.  
  
"Seems like this guy's gotten whacked somewhere." the warrior woman muttered.  
  
"Besides, I don't think someone like the young Prince of Sailune would look so..."  
  
"Ridiculous?" The man supplied.  
  
"Now hold on here!" Phil cried in dismay, sensing that he wasn't being taken seriously at all. "If you think I shall stand here and suffer your abuse, you are all gravely mistaken. TASTE THE POWER OF JUSTICE." he bellowed, jumping high and upon the five conscious and two unconscious people, aiming at the three who had been so impolite to him. "SUPER LOVE AND PEACE AND VALENTINES KICK!"   
  
The kick was well-aimed, filled with righteous power which would, he knew, have crushed the opponents and made them feel deserved pain. The thought both shamed and thrilled his spirit as he bore down on the curs...  
  
...and came flat as the curs in question, not waiting for the kick to arrive as they should and as mist evil-doers had the chronic politeness to do, scattered from their position. Which did that Phillionel drove deep into the ground, showering the area with dust and rocky debris. He coughed and shook as he regained his balance, muttering to himself, before executing a majestic back flip in which he managed to land on his feet - but with which he nearly killed himself. He tensed for battle, ready for anything.  
  
But he was still too disoriented to dodge when the man - a large one, if not as large as he was - swiped his blade and stopped it just against the prince's skin, not drawing blood. A deliberate show of tremendous skill and a challenge. He glared at the black-haired man who was threatening him, and saw that the sorceress held a ball of fire ready to fling if he tried anything harsh.   
  
He drew himself up. "You appear to have won, cur!" he growled "But if you think that the strength of justice and the pride of Sailune will be extinguished so easily...!"  
  
"Whoa, you sure talk a lot." the green-haired woman, who was the only one of the three who looked non-threatening, snapped. "Now if you'd just SHUT UP for a minute and let us explain, you'd understand WE had nothing to do with this!"  
  
His look must have betrayed the disbelief he felt inside. After all, with this devastation around and all of the sorcerers present, it had to be them who had done this act, or at least the two unconscious ones. The green-haired woman sighed.  
  
"Prince Philionel, I give you my word as a Shrine Maiden of Lumeria that we speak the truth." Saying this, she bowed and showed him a golden chain on which the symbol of the Lumerian church was crafted. Phil's eyes widened, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He didn't believe they had nothing to do with what had happened here - the facts all seemed to point to them as of now. Yet, he was a devout follower of the Church of Ceipheed, and by his vows as a man and follower of justice, he had to believe the pledge of a Shrine Maiden.  
  
Obviously seeing his new expression, the swordsman and sorceress removed their weapons from sight, not without giving them an expressive warning that they would be ready to use them if he tried anything. He took a deep breath.  
  
"Very well." he said sternly and indulgently "I am willing to overlook things in regards to your oath, madam. But I will need a very good explanation!"  
  
The people around him rolled their eyes, shook their head and made it clear that they couldn't believe him, the man even throwing in a sentence in a language Phil didn't recognize. At long last the woman spoke, just as solemnly.  
  
"Very well. For the last month, we have worked to reach your kingdom in the hopes of finding safety. However, a few days after we..."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Jomekin was feeling happier than he had in months.  
  
It wasn't very surprising, since for the last months he had been conducting secret research while hearing of the Kingdom's defeats piling up next to Elmekian might. It certainly hadn't rejoiced him to learn that the country which had birthed a magi as gifted as he was so weak, but that he could have lived with. However, to learn as much information as he could, he had had to act like he looked - like a child, a damnable CHILD! - to deceive and poke around where a grown man would have been watched. That he had learned enough to find the exact location of the place the First Knights had sealed some of the Forbidden Lores hadn't helped his mood. In fact he had worked to show a considerable restraint not to kill a guard as he patted his head. Oh, he wanted to kill those people, every single one of them - he would he would- but not now. No matter how much it burned.  
  
Jomekin was a freak - he knew it as well as anyone. Past twelve, he had been unable to grow, being caught in a state of pre-adolescence. It was an unthinkable process, which hinted at something beyond the simply magical - a curse or a stigma of bad luck. Consequently he had been shunned, locked out, reviled by the entire village he lived in. With each dark look, his bitterness grew. With every jibe, his hatred soared. Soon it was more than he could bear, and he managed to latch on to the only thing which might help him - magic. Turning away from the magic of the priests and the teachings of the shamans, he had made his home in the Lumerian guild. There, he had found that he had a natural talent - the sole thing that brought him real joy -and had met Dallomir, who had become his mentor.  
  
Under the older, powerful mage, he had learned much about the world, and had first learned of the truth behind the end of the war of resurrection - that the First Knights, the sainted heroes who had supposedly allowed humanity to rebuild civilization - had willingly castrated Black Magic. Cowering before the thought of a new Lei Magnus - they had stored much of the great spells the greatest Sorcerer who ever lived away. It had rankled him. Deeply. Sailune the Wise, Gabriev the Blademaster, Falana of the Five Winds, and all of those legendary figures had deprived humanity of so many possibilities...  
  
...possibilities like manipulation of reality. Like teleportation, mind reading. And means to change bodies.  
  
The bastards. The damn bastards. They had done this to him! If they were alive, he would hunt and kill each of these cowards!  
  
From the moment he had known the extent of Ceipheed's deceit, of the betrayal those who had arrogantly sheppard mankind from the brink back to ever-increasing prosperity had committed, he had understood Dallomir's point of view. It was their duty to find the Forbidden Lores, to give them back to those who deserved them. Oh, they wouldn't just give the knowledge away, of course. They would first use it to help those who needed it - like Jomekin and anybody like him, and then increase their knowledge so that they could wield the Black Magic powers which had all but died with Falana, Lei Magnus' lover and the last who had known how to use the Forbidden Lore Spells for so many centuries.  
  
"But soon.," he couldn't help but mutter "Soon we will be able to uncover those secrets, and I will find my cure!" this pleasant thought was cut right through the middle by a scoff. He frowned and looked right into the face of Dallomir's other man, Mellinius. The man had ridden right beside him while their mentor had ridden slightly ahead, not saying a word, which suited Jomekin fine.  
  
"What do you want, Mel?" he asked darkly. The other man looked at him with mixed pity and scorn. How he wanted to fireball that expression to oblivion! But he restrained himself masterfully.  
  
"Nothing. I just find it odd that you would put your cure before the well-being of the kingdom."  
  
He truly didn't like Mellinius. He was so damn loyal to the 'higher ideals' of the realm and the guild that he failed to see anything else. Obtuse, narrow-minded, tactless fool! But Dallomir trusted him, and the man HAD good magical aptitude. Still, he couldn't believe he was stuck with this nitwit!  
  
He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. "My cure was my main goal ever since I stopped growing. Everything is second compared to that." he said with that tiny, childlike voice - the voice he had lived with far longer than he should have. He was older than Mellinius! He should be treated with respect! He should... he calmed down, forcing the thoughts to stillness.  
  
The younger - but DAMN DAMN DAMN older-looking - man shook his head in what seemed like faint disgust. "I knew you were selfish, Jomekin, but this, to put yourself before our people..."  
  
"Carefully, carefully, carefully, Mellinius." he cut off darkly, his anger breaking his voice "You think you can go and judge me? Don't you dare! Don't you dare try! Because you don't know! And those who don't know should just SHUT UP!"   
  
"Is that a threat?!?" the other man said, his eyes wide. Not bright, was he. He smirked.  
  
"You bet it is. So careful. And keep your mouth shut tight."  
  
"As much as your discussion seems to be quite entertaining, gentlemen, I believe you should come and see this!" their mentor's voice came to them excitedly. The two men who followed the arch wizard exchanged a glare, then trotted their horses to where Dallomir waited, looking at them and then just ahead with light in his eyes - a lust no one cared to understand and which sometimes made even Jomekin stagger mentally.  
  
As one, they looked in the direction they had to look. And the child-bodied sorceror felt his heart soar at the sight before them. He had been right!  
  
Before them were ruins. But not just any ruins. Long ago, this place had been the home of of many Elves, powerful wizard of White Magic whose knowledge and spells alleviated the suffering in the world in a way that even the most devout of the human priests of today couldn't fathom. It had been them beyond all others who had taught humans of the flow of the magic, and how to use it to their will. Centuries upon centuries of peace had reigned over this region.  
  
But then Lei Magnus, the most powerful human wizard who ever lived, complete master of White, Black and Shamanist magicks, lost his soul to the Shabranigdu Shard buried deep within him. He became malevolent, destructive, intent on erasing the arts which might stop his deranged invasion. Even before Shabranigdu emerged, he had struck the great gleaming Salvaloim Temple. The great Elven Priests had fought, but their magic, so strong in healing, could do little to stop the hurricane of death the former First of the Five Wisemen had become. The temple fell, and was partially destroyed by mighty blasts of magical power.  
  
Soon after, the world had gone to war against Shabranigdu and his hordes.  
  
Time had passed since that war ended, and the eight who were now the legendary First Knights had long departed. Centuries had passed since this place and this overgrown road, located deep within the wild woods of Sailune, had been thread upon, and it showed. Little could be seen of the crumbling temple - a carved, crumbling statue here, part of a column there, almost all of it was covered by the trees and the brushes.  
  
Except one place.  
  
Before them, immense and intact after nearly a millennium, stood the Marble Gates of Salvaloim, great gates of the purest white, ten times the size of a man and twenty times as wide. Sealed long ago by the combined might of Sailune, Gabriev and Falana.  
  
Dallomir looked at the gates with an almost perverse yearning. "Gentlemen," he said as if in a dream "It would appear that we have arrived."  
  
Mellinius looked around bleakly, seemingly unimpressed with the door. "I sense much sadness and death around here."  
  
"But such power!" Jekomin said. "Now I...WE will get what we want from the power stored here!"  
  
"Yes! Yes! Power! For the greatness of Lumeria and the Guild!" Dallomir said triumphantly, still staring at the huge gates.  
  
And although the words he used appeared proper, Jekomin shivered again. He wanted his cure, that was why he was here?  
  
But WHAT did DALLOMIR want?  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Marcus awoke from a deep yet fitful dream, similar to the one which had plagued him ever since he had been a child, to find himself in a room he didn't recognize at all. It was, to say the least, a novel and relatively unpleasant development. Consequently he surged upward to sit up, then proceeded to collapse on the spot. Damn, did he feel weak right now! He'd never felt anywhere near like it before.  
  
Knowing that leaving the room wasn't the most sensible thing at the present. He inspected his surroundings. Wooden ceiling with the slightest signs of age. Bare, whitewashed walls, simple wooden furniture, a chair on which all of his clothes were...  
  
He stopped at the clothes, blinking, his mind reaching a rather embarrassing confusion. He looked beneath the sheets. Yup, nothing on there. He was as naked as a cursed slug. The thought that whoever had put him here had stripped him completely made him feel anything but good. He couldn't really be angry, he had needed a safe haven after that horrendous battle, but still...  
  
He was jarred of his squirming musings when the door creaked open. Years of solitary research and field testing and adventures made him tense up at once, ready to call on whatever magical reserves had been restored by his rest if the need arose. However, the visitor wasn't anybody he could even assume to be an enemy. Dressed in white clothes, a woman of greenish hair entered the room. A priestess obviously. Upon seeing his cautious look, she gave a start then smiled softly.  
  
"You're awake! Amazing! Fezra hasn't budged yet." she said.  
  
He coughed, raising an eyebrow. "Fezra?" he inquired more weakly than he intended. "Who's...wait...is she that crazy sorceress who fought against me?" he stated more than he asked, for the answer seemed to be a taken.  
  
"Yes. She's sleeping, being tended to by others in our group. I don't expect her to wake just yet. In fact I didn't expect you to do so for a while yet."  
  
"I'm full of surprises." he said with a charming smile, his ego flattered by both the praise and the prettiness of the woman. He didn't find her as beautiful as the whacked woman he'd fought, but it appears the group had some quality female flesh in it!  
  
Just then, however, a man entered, holding a tray laden with food. He had also been part of the group he'd seen edging backward from the fight. Arrayed in armor covering his shouldrers and torso, he was a sight - a man of strong muscle, raven hair and dangerous eyes. He was exhuding the titles 'swordsman' and 'mercenary' all rolled into one. And the hardly subtle warning look he gave Marcus made him swallow his winning smile and decide not to pull moves on that priestess.  
  
"So, he's awake, huh?" The fighter said gruffly.  
  
"Well, his eyes are open and he's speaking. I think that qualifies as being 'awake'." the priestess answer in irritation. The tone lacked anything confrontational in nature, though. There was something there, or at least the beginning of something. And the warrior had told Marcus he better not do anything to ruin it.  
  
He wouldn't. It wasn't really his style. Besides, he didn't find her as interesting as the memories he had of that beautiful, powerful and dangerously temperamental sorceress he had fought.  
  
"The woman...the one I fought. Her name is Fezra?" he asked.  
  
"Yes. Fezra Inverse. You should eat now."  
  
The family name hit him like a lightning bolt. Inverse! INVERSE! A name which carried great weight amongst anyone who knew anything of the black arts. The Inverse family was known as one of the most naturally powerful, with members of this family emerging rather frequently in Guild history. Vedrian Inverse, who founded many guilds. Ashra Inverse, who became the wisest and greatest wizard of her time. And Zerios Inverse, the Fourth of the Five Wisemen. Power, temper, intelligence and greed. It was a flamboyant and formidable line.  
  
He chuckled to himself in disbelief. "An Inverse. No wonder she was so strong. And you are?"  
  
The priestess smiled as she took the food tray from the warrior, then proceeded to install it on Marcus's lap. "My name is Hallia Servales. And this hunk of muscle," she said with a jerk towards the warrior, "Is Loerik Gabriev."  
  
Marcus, who had taken a sip from the water goblet on the tray, nearly choked on it. "G-Gabriev?!? But that's...I mean...that's..."  
  
At his fumbling words, the swordsman actually relaxed, the ice broken as far as he was concerned. "If you're asking if I'm from the family descended from the First Knight Gabriev and from which the legendary Swordsman of Light emerged, you're right. The Swordsman of Light's my grandfather, as far as I know."  
  
"Loerik's got the Sword of Light, now." Hallia added. Loerik gave her a look and she smiled. "What? He'd have known sooner or later!"  
  
The warrior shook his head. "You're as insufferable as Fez sometimes."  
  
"I know." she said. And they exchanged a look worth a thousand words. Yes, there was definitely something going on here.  
  
"Well...err...this is fascinating." he thought quickly. "Fezra's power is great, you're the Light Swordsman, other magic-users....quite a powerful group." he looked at them both. "If I may, I think I might need help from a group like yours for my purposes."  
  
The tall man frowned, folding his arms. "Purposes, wizard? I've been fighting a war for three years and I've seen the way that word is used."  
  
Marcus saw the priestess flinch ever so slightly and wondered. A war for three years? "You were involved in the Elmekia-Lumeria war, weren't you?" he stated. At Hallia's downcast eyes, he saw he had hit the mark. "You were involved, and on the side of the Lumerians."  
  
"No. I was a priestess in the Lumerian Royal Army." Hallia rectified in a voice filled with anxiety and sadness. "Loerik was..."  
  
"He doesn't have to know the details of what we did!" The swordsman snapped, and didn't moderate his tone even though he hesitated when she looked at him in an angry and hurt face. "Right now I'd like this guy to tell us what he wants with us!"  
  
In many ways, Marcus couldn't quite disagree with the intent of the taller man, though he might find the means a little harsh. After all, he WAS digging where he shouldn't, all the while telling them that he needed their help without going on to explain the details. However, there was also the fact that the warrior had snapped his retort BEFORE he could say anything. Taking all this into account, the young sorcerer decided that caution was the better part of valor.  
  
"You're right." he said at length. "You're absolutely right, and I intend to explain it rightr now, if you'll let me." he couldn't help but give that last a sardonic edge. The swordsman's eyes flashed briefly, but that quickly gave way to a grin.  
  
"Sorry." he said, spreading his hands "Lets just say that the past few weeks have been even more tiresome than anything previous."  
  
"That's true." Hallia added with a sigh charged with many - although controlled - emotions. Then she raised her head as though a thought had just struck her. "Reminds me...perhaps you could go and get the prince here? I'm sure he'd like to listen to whatever this guy has to say...if its important." she gave a questioning look.  
  
Prince? What was that about a Prince? Marcus banished the thought at once. There was no time left for wondering. He had gathered clues along the way, piecing things together from the rumors of the Guild and the information he personally gathered at the library. He knew something might happen if he didn't reach Salvaloim Temple quickly. If need be, he'd go it alone, but these people - who seemed rather aimless - might be a great boon to him if fighting broke out.  
  
Thoughts of the fair, dangerous sorceress emerged, and he inwardly grinned to himself before resuming a business face. He looked down at the food and picked up the loaf of bread. Munching on it, he finally faced the other two.  
  
"Gather anyone you want. Then I'll tell you my story."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"You should have waited for me to wake up before going on this thing!"  
  
"We've been over this time and time again, Fez! You were still out cold when he told us about this thing the Lumerian sorcerers want to do. We took a vote and unanimously decided to go!"  
  
"NOT unanimous! I was unconscious!"  
  
"Enough of this! The only reason you're getting all hot about this is because we didn't take your advice and because of that you're acting like a child. Sometimes, you really...ahh!" with that huff, Hallia kicked her horse into a trot, and went to join the other just ahead, leaving Zashtla alone bringing in the rear. The swordswoman sighed when she saw the sorceress' eyes fix on her.  
  
"And why didn't you say anything?" Fezra asked, still turning to glare at Hallia's receding back but mostly focusing on her.  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "There was nothing to be said, Fezra. Why don't you relax for a bit?" she asked, knowing very well that her advice wouldn't be heeded - the woman never heeded anyone but herself. Nor, she reflected with some wry amusement, did Zashtla herself.  
  
"I don't like this. I mean, this guy could be leading us into a trap or something." the uncertainty in her voice immediately told the warrior how little the powerful sorceress believed in that. She coughed in embarrassment, then set her face in stubborn lines. "I just don't feel like he's playing on the level with us."  
  
Zashtla had to nod at that. She had reservations about the man's story herself, and had given voice to some of her concerns to the others. She didn't believe that the red-haired man wished them any harm, but it was clear that the temple they were searching, a legendary temple this Marcus claimed to have discovered the rough location of, with its rogue bamd of sorcerors trying to access it, was full of subtle holes. Still, she followed, partly because she had seen the worry in the younger man's eyes, and partly...  
  
She sighed. The real reason for she following was that, for the first time in her life, she felt she had some kind of purpose, people she had actually started to grow attached to. Sullen Berwen with her exasperation fits, deadly, happy-go-lucky Fezra, the somber yet kind Loerik and the proud, strong-willed Hallia. Even the silent, shy and fearful Narie had become a sort of part of her being. She couldn't understand it, couldn't understand that for all of her years as a lonely mercenary, with her memory fuzzy from an event she could never recall, she had actually become part of something greater than herself. She hadn't been for a long time.  
  
But once...once she had been...in Kalmaart...there was...there was someone, someone who did something...he was...he was...  
  
"One thing's for sure, it will sure come in handy to travel with the Crown Prince of Sailune himself!" Fezra stated loudly, stopping all attempts at recollection for the moment.  
  
More angry than she would want to admit at the rude interruption of her train of thoughts, Zashtla briefly considered throtling or knocking out the auburn-haired sorceress before dismissing the idea entirely. Not that she feared either Fezra or the other if it came to something so drastic - she was too near to react and they were to far to help - even if they really DID want the sorceress to shut up. She didn't stop because of that.  
  
She stopped because she was seized with the futility of wondering what her past was, what she had done past the last five years or so. Her name, her skills with a blade, that was nearly all she had left of her old self. It saddened her, angered her, sometimes terrified her, and so she always tried to remember, to let go shortly after.  
  
Trying not to show the depression in her heart, she answered her friend. "The prince's help greatly speeded up matters in securing horses, but I don't think he wants to flaunt who he is here. The king and he..."  
  
Fezra waved an hand negligently. "...are on very bad terms. I know, and I think half of the world knows by now. Still, it might be useful for us, you know, to get cut prices on food, lodging, all that stuff. We could get the best food, the best rooms in inns too, in a snap."  
  
"You're so greedy."  
  
Fezra gave her a cheeky grin. "Me? Greedy? No way! I'm only a very practical, fragile, sensitive young woman!"  
  
Hearing Fezra Inverse, one of the toughest, smartest, temperamental - and most reckless - woman she'd ever met, give herself qualities like 'fragile' and 'sensitive' actually broke her from her gloomy thoughts, and she grinned slightly. This always happened these days. If Fezra's big mouth didn't cheer her up, a long talk with Hallia calmed her, or a sword fight with Loerik thrilled her. She couldn't find the time to mope about what she had lost. Which, in clear hindsight, she definitely voted as a good thing.  
  
And only for that, it made those people all the more dear to her heart.  
  
"Anyway, now that I think about it..." Fezra mused excitedly.  
  
"Improvement from this morning." she interrupted with a smirk. The sorceress turned a mock-glare towards her.  
  
"Watch it, Tala!" she said good-naturedly, shaking a finger. "I bit when I get angry at people! As I was SAYING... this temple could be a great adventure, assuming this GUY really knows where the thing is. I don't." she paused, her eyes lighting up a bit more. "Still...Salvaloim Temple! What a blast it would be!"  
  
Zashtla gave her a confused look, and Fezra blinked. "You don't know about it? I mean, about the Elves being there, Lei Magnus destroying it, the First Knights and the sealing?"  
  
"Only small bits at the campfires. We mercenaries are so occupied by living day-by-day...greater events have no real meaning to us."  
  
Fezra nodded with a sober look. "I see. Then...why do you follow us?"  
  
"For the same reason you do - because this group, as crazy as it can be, is pretty fun to adventure with!" she couldn't help but grin again at that, wider than before.  
  
At this, the young sorceress threw her head back and laughed, her voice carried far and wide and even causing the others ahead to give her looks ranging from irritation to casual amusement to blank astonishment depending whom was concerned. She laughed truly, her luxuriant auburn hair dancing with her mirth. She got it back under control quickly, but the smile, and the glees, remained easy to see.  
  
Yes, that was the life she had missed. Friends. Friends to give some sort of purpose to herself. For although she had never told the others this, although she'd put up the image of a woman who, unlike poor Narie, had put up with what the mercenaries - and HIM in particular - had done to her, it was anything but the truth.  
  
She had put up with it...because it gave her a sort of twisted meaning, something to latch on to. She had been glad for that. Now, she was far too ashamed to talk of it.  
  
But at least now she had something tangible. She had a true life. Not some unremembered past and dark future, but a very promising present!  
  
It was nice to understand that something in her life would be tangible. She had no intention of letting it go to waste.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"And so your pawns are on their way."  
  
"Not pawns...merely unwitting allies."  
  
"As you say, its all semantics to me. And do you believe that these adventurers will be able to stop the catastrophe at hand."  
  
"I have done all I can so that they could do so. I manipulated enough events to bring them together. The rest is up to them. I cannot do more than watch now."  
  
"Truly? And what about the other matter, the other darkness, the thing which we have both seen in our dreams?"  
  
"...of that event, and its conclusion, old friend, I have no knowledge. When we know more, perhaps we could do something. Right now, however, let us watch. Events are about to start unfolding."  
  
_______________________________________ 


	6. Chapter Five

"If there was any a thing which my heart does not wish, it is to be married off to someone as Philionel De Sailune! They all speak of his wealth and of the love the people have for him. Smart talk, these gossipers will never have to walk with such an ugly ox for the rest of their lives! And yet, for all I can rant and rave, there is nothing I might do to resist my uncle's will. Hellishly bent on taking Lumeria, he wants me off so that the King of Sailune won't act.  
  
Damnation. Could there be anything worse to befall me?"  
  
-From Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun's memoirs, shortly before her departure for Sailune, 983 AR   
  
Chapter Five  
  
  
  
  
"Is there anything wrong, my brother? Your face speaks of disquiet."  
  
Salemir Elin Sar Elmekun, Duke of the Westlands of Elmekia, met his brother's eyes evenly. Although he felt more than a passing tingle of dread as his older brother and ruler speared him with keen green eyes, looking across the linen-drapped table and the sumptuous dinner the two brothers were sharing. Ferlin had always been the most intelligent of them both, and both knew that well.  
  
"I was merely thinking, My Emperor. Pray don't concern thyself." he replied. As an answer, the monarch gave out a snorting chuckle.  
  
"Now is know something bothers you for certain, Salemir. You never use titles on me except in public or when your mind is clouded. Come now, what could it be? It certainly couldn't be the war. After all, our ultimate victory is clearly insured."  
  
That last was a truth. Weren't the brothers dining in the castle of one of Lumeria's greatest lords, eating off the good sheep and beef he kept in his private larders, as well as cheese, wine and vegetables taken from the man's lands. Not that he would mind as he was now, rotting at the gallows as a sign of Elmekia's unrelenting power. The Lumerians were flying before the might of the Empire's soldiers, cavalry and wizardry. They were dining but a half a hundred mile from their capital, and if all went well, it would fall within four months.  
  
No, the war did not bother him.  
  
Not in itself.  
  
"It isn't the war per se, Ferlin. Rather about something attached to its fruition." He took a bite off the sheep meat on his table. Perfect taste, perfect amount of spice, perfect cooking. Of course. The Emperor of Elmekia wanted the best with him in all things, from generals to cooks.  
  
The man who had once sparred with him when they were boys frowned slightly, gulping his cup of wine in one long trait and holding it out to be refilled, which it was barely an instant later. "Leave the bottle on the table and leave us." the emperor took a deep breath. "Salemir..."  
  
"I know what you're about to say. And I know the stakes and the politics only too well. And yet, to give...her...over to this oaf of a noble, Prince Phillionel..."  
  
"She could do worse, my brother. Far worse." The emperor interjected.  
  
"He is a buffoon! A youth always looking to right some improbable wrong, always crying about some vaunted and ridiculous form of justice. His silliness may hold the people's sympathy, but he will never be a good king. He has NO intelligence!" Salemir raged, taking off a huge bite of sheep, washing it down with his wine. In front of him, as usual, Ferlin remained calm, calculating, serene. He wasn't an evil man, the Duke knew that very well. But then again, he had never needed to. Emperor Ferlin Gredon Sar Elmekun the Second, after all, could convince anybody of anything. Convince the people to wage war. Convince the nobles to pay for it. Even convince mighty Sailune to remain out of the conflict. No one resisted his brother when he wanted something, and what he wanted was to see Lumeria broken, annexed, and entirely his.  
  
Salemir didn't mind that at all. Lumeria was far from his own lands, it could burn or be swallowed by the desert for all he cared of it. However, giving Valmatia, the brightest, most beautiful of his daughters...  
  
"My brother, as ridiculous as the prince may seem, he is very wealthy, and will one day sit on the throne of Sailune. Your daughter is very intelligent indeed. If he displeases her, I am quite certain she will have him dancing on her strings if need be. " He drained and refilled his cup. "More importantly, I had to give the King of Sailune something to keep his army out of our affairs. Taking over a whole country is rather straining to our military, and we didn't need them barging in on us.  
  
That was true. After all, Sailune's army was second to none, better even than the Imperial Army, or the Magic Forces of Zefielia. To keep them out of the war was essential. To buy them off was always hard. Salemir took an apple from a basket of fruit and began to eat it thoughtfully. "I still dislike the idea of my wife's beauty reincarnated being sullied by this..."  
  
"In all endeavors, Salemir, there must be concessions to be made, sacrifices to be made." The emperor reminded him.  
  
"That is what father always said." he sighed. Never a day passed when the deceased Emperor wouldn't repeat it to them, along with many others of the same ilk. His brother had been a very good listener and learner. "Mother always told him he talked far too much for his own good."  
  
"Yet in this case he was quite right. Diplomacy is critical in everything." His calm eyes fixed him. "And so is loyalty."  
  
Salemir bristled slightly. "And what, pray tell, does that mean?"  
  
"Nothing else than what it says."  
  
The Duke of the western lands looked at his emperor almost furiously. Hidden away a mere moment away were guards, many guards ready to jump him or kill him if he even tried to lift a finger at his brother, and for a moment it depressed him. For striking was exactly what he intended to do.  
  
"Do not ever question my loyalty, Ferlin. I would never betray you or the Empire. Haven't I proven it to you once long ago?" he gestured at his neck, which showed three deep scars going down into the collar - the strike of a maddened bear.  
  
It had been long ago indeed. Both were young princes, and looking for adventure they sneaked away from the imperial country residence, and had gone into the forest. A naive, youthful escapade which had nearly turned to tragedy when the two had met a large grizzly bear, maddened by an old wound, which had attacked Ferlin. Salemir had pushed him out of the way, receiving the strike and falling to the ground. It would have been the end of him, but then guards, who had been tracking them down, burst into action and slaughtered the beast. The scars had been so deep they had never faded away. However, it had cemented the trust the brothers had for each other.  
  
Ferlin's eyes shadowed for a moment, and a spasm of regret crossed his face. "I know, my brother. I know that you would never betray me. But your are angry, and that I can feel."  
  
"Its not at you, its at this...this situation!"  
  
"I myself did not enjoy giving her away much. Valmatia is extremely intelligent, a cultured beauty who can enchant the coldest heart. Certainly she is better than my brood." He spat in slight irritation. His children, three of them yet, all fell short of their father's expectations yet. "If she had been mine, I would have given her the throne as her heritage. But she wasn't. So I gave her Sailune's." He spread his hands widely. "One can't always get all he wants, even when he is an emperor."  
  
Salemir threw away the apple's core, then finished his wine. Finding his glass empty. He started to rise to go and get the bottle at the other side of the table, and stopped in surprised as Ferlin rose with it and went to fill his glass. He looked at it for a moment.   
  
"She looked so like her mother, as enchanting as she was. Losing her is like losing my love once again. Not to poison this time, but to a young foolish nobleman."  
  
The emperor said nothing. Moments passed. Finally he reached for his drink.  
  
"If that Philionel ever makes her life miserable, I will end his. You know this."  
  
"Yes." was the stated, matter-of-factual reply. Salemir looked at his brother. The two of them had always been so close. Despite the differences in charisma, despite the rumors, despite everything, they had always seemed to understand each other so well. Nothing, it seemed, would make him break that link. And so, once again, quite calmly, his brother had won him over.  
  
He raised his glass. "I have given the memory of my wife for your war. Except for my life there is little of a greater sacrifice. For this I want your vow, your vow that it will not be in vain, that Lumeria will fall. Only that will sate me of my loss."  
  
"Brother, if you'd wanted more I would have given it. But I assure you, we WILL destroy it. You have my vow as your ruler and as your brother."  
  
Salemir looked at his cup. "Then all is said. Let the Lumerians suffer for my pain."  
  
And he drank the wine his brother had given him.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Loerik looked around and sighed deeply. Why, in all of the places in the world, did they have to be in this one? This great, ancient ruin, so obviously elven that it reminded him of home at once? The Gods were definitely playing a very bad joke on him. He looked around the place one more time, dismissing sight of the horses, or of his friends, to stare at the large structure, with its crumbling pillars, formerly all slender, its statues so exquisite no human hand could have made them. Certainly, it was decaying, but the telltale traces, the fine details still apparent, all of that spoke of Elvenkind.  
  
His mother's kind. His siblings' kind. Even his father's kind, though adopted.  
  
But not his. Never his kind. His exile, and the grief of the parting with his family, dredged up the old sadness, the bitterness. He turned away from the sight, to be granted trees and shrubs and bushes, the deep of the wild forests of Sailune. Forests, right now, were however an unwelcome sight. He sat on a broken column's stump and closed his eyes. Still, the memories of happier times, of growing up in the safety of his family on Mipross, still haunted him.  
  
"Mother, father...how I miss you!" he whispered sadly.  
  
"Sorry to hear that. But sometimes you have to look forward, and not backwards!"  
  
The fact that the voice which cut through his depressed mind so efficiently wasn't of anyone he knew factored in. His eyes flew open, and he saw a man garbed in priestly robes grinning down at him happily, his purple hair ruffling just slightly in the breeze. The man was bending slightly, so that his face was very close to Loerik's and his smile seemed to fill all of the warrior's vision.  
  
The next instant Loerik had drawn his blade, taken the man by the neck and slammed him against a broken elven statue, angry and unnerved. He hadn't felt any presence, his shrewd second sense had told him nothing at all! How the heck had the man managed to do it, anyway?!? he thought as he pressed his blade against the priest's neck. A priest who seemed not the lead bit worried over his predicament.  
  
"My! Aren't you a touchy one." the grinning one mused.  
  
"Who the heck are you, priest? How did you manage to sneak up to me?" Loerik asked grimly, pressing his blade a little harder, incensed by the easy grin. Again, there was no noticeable change in the priest's demeanor. Indeed, the joviality in the tone actually INCREASED. The pries t lifted a finger.  
  
"No need to get all worked up over nothing! I wasn't going to attack you. I'm a very stealthy kind of fellow, so its normal that you wouldn't sense me. As for my name, well its..."  
  
"Xellos!" Marcus's voice resounded in surprise from behind Loerik. The others had hurried as soon as they'd seen the beginning of the altercation. THEY, at least, Loerik had felt coming. "What are you doing here?" the voice added, and as it did an heavy hand fell on the swordsman, armored shoulder.  
  
"If he has not harmed you or meant harm to you, then I must ask that you release this man. It is uncouth to hold him like this if..."  
  
Loerik snapped off Phil's hand with an irritated shrug. "I don't like people sneaking up on me, Prince." he growled "And thats what he just did." he put his face right next to Xellos' "Don't do that again." he warned, and released him with a huff, striding a few steps away, not really caring about his friends or the fact that they were watching him as he walked. He collected his thoughts, turned away from them, as they talked with the newcomer.  
  
"Marcus, you know that weirdo?" Fezra asked.  
  
"Barely. He once gave me some advice and then just left. By the way, Xellos, you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"  
  
"Well, I was in the neighbourhood, you see. Was just strolling around-"  
  
"In the middle of uninhabited forest?" Berwen cut in sarcastically.  
  
"Why yes! And so I saw you, examining those ruins - I know of them, its kind of one of my places to be to reminisce - and stumped about this stone you've found."  
  
Loerik looked sideways, where the rest of the group, still at a somewhat cautious distance from the priest, were discussing intently. Hallia was the only one who turned to him as he looked, giving him a concerned look he responded to with a gentle shrug and a shake of his head. A stone? When had they found a stone? Not that he WOULD know, since he'd spent the day trying to do anything BUT looking around the place.  
  
Fezra was starting to get worked up over this Xellos, that was plain. "So you were just around, coincidentally. You saw us, coincidentally. And finally, always coincidentally, you saw the stone we were just arguing about!" She glared "Did I get all of this right?"  
  
The priest only kept grinning. "Not quite, not quite. Coincidentally, I know just whom you need to understand the LANGUAGE on the stone." At that, he glanced at Loerik pointedly. All froze for moment, before all eyes locked on the swordsman.  
  
Being the center of attention wasn't something Loerik Gabriev yearned for, or wanted. Three years of solitude, of mindlessly following orders and of spending lonely days sharpening his swordsmanship and trying to ignore the filth and injustice around him couldn't be erased by a few weeks with others who, seemingly, had the ability to bring back the young man who had been exiled from all he had. He frowned at Xellos darkly.  
  
"I don't know what this...guy...is talking about." he said gruffly, daring anyone to say anything. He saw Fezra open her mouth, and he grinned inwardly. Trust her to walk into a very deadly glare and not care about it, he thought. Before she could start in a tirade, he raised his eyebrows dubiously. "But since you found a stone, I'm willing to look at it and - what- HEY HEY HEEEEEEEEEY!" He shouted suddenly, as Marcus, Fezra, Berwen, Hallia and Phillionel all seemed to SHIFT from a few meters away and near him, grabbing him all and hoisting him. His mind was barely seizing on to the fact that he was being transported - and that that annoying priest was following behind, snickering merrily - before being deposited just as swiftly.   
  
He shook their hands off him, although he frankly minded Hallia's less than the others', and glared at them. "DAMMIT, YOU PEOPLE ARE CRAZY!!!" he screamed in complete exasperation - his shout had no effect on them all, as he'd surmised, and he turned round in dejection. Thats when his eyes fell on the stone.  
  
Tall, like a rough pillar of white marble, it stood at the base of the stairs leading to the crumbling, once-majestic entrance to the ancient elven temple. Words, he saw, were indeed wrought upon it, all graceful letters of a language no one knew today. Almost no one, except a few old scholars.  
  
"And people from Mipross." he sighed as he saw the words. It read  
  
Deliani askara linaithe salanka  
Zelth commol-khaï nuh karastha  
Oprue deliani shol ku sal-thara   
  
Ancient elvish. Used only amongst the clerics of Mipross today, however though it had been the war language of the allied races during the war of resurrection. As his mother, Mellyroon, had been an elven priestess of some consequence, he knew enough to know what the words mean, even though it eluded brighter people such as Fezra, Hallia, or even Marcus. With a sigh, he drew the Sword of Light's hilt, and activated it, holding it in front of him.  
  
"Zelth commol-khu fer valada. S...err...um...Shukilan sha...ah! Shukilan sha-bokhy als valada!" he intoned in the halting Ancient Elvish the entire family had been taught since they could talk. For a moment, nothing happened, and he heard grunts from behind him. Yet he didn't budge, still holding his sword in front of him. He expected something, they all did, yet they were all surprised when it happened.  
  
The stone shone brightly for a moment, and he squinted as a form flashed into existence. He blinked. Then blinked again. He couldn't believe it.  
  
In front of him was the image of a man. Tall, nearly as tall as Phillionel, he had an athletic physique to match, an hard, granite-like face with roughly cut brown hair, wearing a suit of heavy armor with seemingly frightening ease. But what made Loerik quiver was the look in the man's eyes. A deadly look promising a swift end if one crossed his path, a terrible ruthlessness wrapped in tight, overwhelming honor and integrity. At his hip, the Sword of Light lay, looking far newer. Even before the image spoke, Loerik thought they all knew who the man was.  
  
"Greeting." boomed a strong, no nonsense voice ripe with quiet power and dignity. "Bearer of the Sword of Light, worthy swordsman. I am Gabriev, the one they call The Swordsmaster. You have come here to enter a place barred from all but the worthy, for what this temple contains, no ordinary people may use. The stone has felt your soul and has felt your worth. You may enter." the apparition paused, then seemed to skin Loerik alive. "To the new bearer of the Sword: never fail it, never fail yourself, and victory shall always be yours."  
  
And with that, Gabriev, one of the First Knights and the very first Swordsman of Light, vanished, leaving them all dazed. It was then that Xellos, who had been standing not far away from Loerik's position, seemed to say the impossible, even as the ruined doors began to open.  
  
"Strange. I remember him being a little bit taller than that... Oh well! Lets all have fun!!!!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"The sea. Such a beautiful song, such a work of nature's power. If I could see it, if only I could, this city would be perfect."  
  
Rezo, of course, could 'see', in a fashion. His powers were vast, and had afforded him that much. He had spells which could help him read just like he was a normal person, spells which could allow him to walk about unaided, just like those with the wondrous gift of sight. He even had an ongoing spell on himself which permitted him to 'know' the details of objects and people, of his whole surroundings.  
  
That is why, as he stood on his mansion's balcony and looked out, that he 'knew' what made Sairaag such a beautiful cities. A city of faith, rivalling Sailune itself with its churches and temples, made it an architectural wonder of pillars, towers and soaring buildings. He could 'see' the docks farther off, where ships upon ships were docked, carrying goods from the rest of Lyzeille and from farther lands, he distinctively 'saw the many gurgling fountains doting the city, the small parks where he himself sometimes strolled in the evening.  
  
And beyond all other beauties, there was the Holy Tree Flagoon, looming powerfully and benevolently over the area, a gift from the Swordsman of Light, who had rid this place of a terrible evil when he had been but an apprentice. Sairaag was truly today a city of peace, a place to be admired as the best that mankind could accomplish.  
  
But for all that beauty, it remained that he didn't truly see it. His eyes, closed since the day he was born, refused to allow him sight, and no matter what he did, no matter the remedies he concocted or the spells he crafted, nothing worked. Only this void ever greeted his vision, this nothingness which didn't understand colors or shapes. Sometimes, the unfairness of it all truly overwhelmed him.  
  
Born blind to middling sorcerors, he had been lucky that his parents, seeing his blindness, hadn't cast him out, but instead sacrificed their studies to craft the first spells which artificially afforded him a form of sight. Soon learning that magic might cure his blindness, that its force was a power which had produced miracles, he had devoted his life to it, enduring the ridicule those with sight bestowed upon him.  
  
He had learned white magic, going from apprentice to white sorceror in a matter of years. And yet the solution didn't appear. He then travelled to Zefielia and learned Black Magic, making money quite quickly with his powerful concoctions, and devoting much of it to opening places where the maimed or deprived ones could have care. He became a master the dark arts quickly - strangely quickly, a part of his mind had always nagged him. And yet it wasn't enough. He had then gone around learning all he could of high-level shamanism from the hidden cabals, doing his best to help others, whether killing trolls attacking a village or curing a ailing baby. He had become a master of Shamanism as well. His image had become famous. He had become revered throughout the known world. The people called him the Red Priest, and did him honour. Children came to him in the streets. Women blushed and giggled as he passed. Warriors and sorcerors alike bowed to him.  
  
He was loved by all, respected by all. And yet, at times, he would give it all away, if only to see the sunrise just once.  
  
"There's no time for this bout of self-pity, you old fool." he remonstrated himself sternly, turning away from Sairaag itself. "Don't flatter yourself so much. Its not like you never made mistakes, no matter what the ministrels say. Now let go of that which is beyond your reach yet and concentrate on the problem at hand."  
  
This scathing, self-reproving talk worked...barely. The longing remained, but his mind managed to shake off the depression he felt. He had work to do.  
  
"Father? You called for us?" an hesitant voice called out and he turned towards the sound. Immediately the spelled relayed distinctive information, and he knew everything.  
  
Kala Redcloak looked at him, small and fragile, her brown hair cascading down her shoulders, her mauve eyes looking at him firmly and willfully. She had inherited much from her mother. He winced inwardly. His mother, whom he had bedded in ignorance, had actually been the child he had had as a very young man with another apprentice. He hadn't been told until too late, yet the guilt remained the same. He had slept with his own daughter. The horror of the thought had made him scorn any further intimate relations with anyone. Kala, his daughter and yet granddaughter, knew nothing of this and never would, if he had any say in the matter.  
  
Beside her, a young man. Lionel Greysword, average, lanky, dressed in apprentice garb as she, he was a man of intelligence and clarity, even though he could sometimes be aloof with others. Rezo knew that he and his daughter were beginning to feel sentiments which went beyond friendship, yet he didn't try to stop it. He wouldn't ruin things when they seemed to be going so well. Of course, however, if Lionel hurt her, the magical retribution would be severe. Very, very, severe.  
  
He nodded. "Indeed I did. I wanted you to hear about the message I've received from the Guild in Atlas. It appears they've sent a lad by the name of Marcus Jaderam to investigate our suspicions."  
  
"Jaderam?" Lionel mused in his serious fashion. "I've heard of him. Extremely talented sorceror, they say."  
  
"True. I have heard he might be the best the guild trained since..." he smirked slightly "Well, since me, I suppose. Whatever the case, what imports is the last message he sent to them. It seems that there might be trouble in the southern forests of Sailune. More precisely, around the elven ruins we visited once."  
  
Kala frowned. "Elven magic? I cannot believe they would seek it. It would be no help to them."  
  
"We may have been looking at this all the wrong way. Maybe those temples aren't clues to the Hidden Lores...." Lionel retorted in risen excitation.  
  
"...but in fact, they might just be where the Hidden Lores are hidden, or at least some of them."  
  
"But the spells on the ruins are impenetrable."  
  
"Nothing is if you have the tools. And if Jaderam has gone there, it is perhaps a sign that such tools might be going in use shortly." he paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I cannot move yet. Jaderam is known as a loose cannon, and so repercussions would be minimal if he messed up. I can't help because I am not a loose cannon, and that I can't take sides." he pointed at them "But you two are still my apprentices. You are not yet bound by the guild. That is why I must ask you to help me."  
  
"Anything, sir." the young man said readily. Rezo nodded, then uncovered a thick book, with an ancient, wrinkled leather binding and covered in crafted runic symbols. Both apprentices looked at it intently, and the Red Priest knew they had felt the power coming from it.  
  
"What you are feeling are the spells the writer of that manuscript used to keep it safe. It is full of magical traps and musn't be read by the unwary. However, you should read it because its magic does not permit my magical eyesight to do so. Finding out what she wrote will be important, and I fear it might not be enough. We are running to catch with whatever is about to happen. Things are going to pass, and we must be ready as can be."  
  
"On The Magic Sealed Away, Mysteries Best Left Untouched, by...Sai Lune of the Faithful Men?!?" Kala read with a gasp, looking at Rezo. The Red Priest merely turned back to observing what he could sense of Sairaag. "Father, is this...is this truly...?"  
  
"Yes. This was written by Sai Lune, shortly before he was crowned King by the people he had shepherded after the War. It will help us." he sighed "I only hope this will be enough."  
  
"Sir?" Lionel inquired.  
  
"Elven Temples. Forbidden Lores. War and people rushing to things unseen. Something is about to happen. And I fear none will be able to stop it all this time."  
  
And although he couldn't see their faces, Rezo knew they understood, and feared the meaning of his words. The world, as they said, was going in for a ride shortly. He only hoped his work and the work of others would prevent it from having too many disastrous bumps. Because if it did, things might tip over.  
  
And if that happened, Ceipheed help the world.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dallomir knew they were close. Very close. The magical traps had been harder and harder to detect and unstring, the twists and turns in the labyrinthine catacombs built beneath the temple. Once used to hide elven wealth from marauders, then used as a futile hiding place when Lei Magnus' forces had slaughtered the entire priestly order, it had been strengthened manyfold by survivors of the Triad Army under the orders of the First Knights, the greatest heroes who had fought in humanity's name against the Mazoku. It was a very clever labyrinth, and he was quite certain that, in usual conditions, he never would have made it to the end. After all, this was the work of people who had made their way through the lethal labyrinth where Lei Magnus made war upon the world, controlled as he was by Shabranigdu.  
  
However, they had left plans of the maze intact...just in case.  
  
It was known that Falana's scroll remained sealed away somewhere in Zefiela, and Sai Lune had sealed his own somewhere around the future capital of the realm bearing his name, while Gabriev had simply burned his. Two had been lost over the years, and had become legendary, then mythical. People didn't believe in them anymore.  
  
But Dallomir had. Even before the THAT battle, he had believed. He had believed because SHE had. Because she was always right, and that was that. She had always been able to predict anything, his Sheila. His perfect goddess, Sheila.  
  
"But they thought they'd be clever and thought they could kill you, Sheila, they did think that." he muttered voicelessly so that the other two - the foolish idealist and that childlike psychopath - could hear their conversation.  
  
'They were fools, of course, my love. I had it all prepared, everything was there for you, to make them pay for their insolence.' came a voice he knew as hers. She always talked to his mind.  
  
He studied the plan, placing his hand on different sections of what appeared to be a bare wall, feeling the blocks shift under his hand. "They'll be sorry, my love, they will. Your plan is swiftly coming to fruition." The voice didn't respond. A second later there was a clicking sound, then a rumbling noise. "All this because of the plan you found Sheila. Your legacy to all of Lumeria." He turned to the other and spoke loudly, drawing himself stiffly. "Beware. If this information is correct, this is where they hid some of the Lores. Although the plan has helped us evade the various traps, I daresay they prepared something, just in case someone ever managed to get a hold of one."  
  
Jomekin actually grinned at this, his childish face showing the sort of glee no innocent child could ever have, while Mellinius looked rather worried. The weak fool's resolve was weakening by the moment, eh? Well, they would see about that when he had whatever was in there.  
  
Firmly they entered, a place where darkness prevailed, with only their light spells illuminating. With a conscious effort, Dallomir concentrated and illuminated the room. When they could see all there was to see, the middle aged sorceror's heart nearly stopped, so much did rage take him.  
  
"There's nothing here!" cried Mellinius.  
  
It was nothing more than the truth. The room they were standing here might once have been a chamber used to hide non-combatants away from harm, for the circular room of stone was very large, large enough to accomodate at least fifty people. But it was bare. Its walls were smooth, with no adornments anywhere. There wasn't even a piece of furniture, much less the wealth of magical knowledge he had hoped to uncover.  
  
"How can this be?!?" he muttered in fury "Everything points to this, everything seems to say that the First Knight sealed items and scrolls of power here!" He shook his fist at the empty wall. "WHERE ARE THE LORES, DAMN YOU TO OBLIVION!!!!" he screamed, his voice reverberating and echoing to and fro between the walls.  
  
"All of this for nothing!" Jomekin griped bitterly "All of our work, all the hard labor, for an empty room!"  
  
"Then Lumeria is truly vanquished." the younger sorceror lamented. The man-child gave him an angry look that spoke volumes about how much he cared about THAT, yet didn't respond. Was there indeed any point to it anymore, now that their hopes had been cruelly dashed?  
  
Dallomir felt, for the first time in many years, completely lost. Sheila, the beloved woman who had known so much, the person who had been killed by those wretched Elmekian sorcerors, had been wrong. It could not be, his mind raved, but what else was there? There was nothing here, nothing but blank walls which stared back at him impassively, an high ceiling of polished stone and a tiled floor which...  
  
Which...was...uneven?  
  
The mage looked more closely at the floor, even going out on his knees to inspect. Clearly, some of the tiles were just slightly higher. So slight was it, that it would take a very observant eye - like his own were - to notice the difference. Slight elevation...which form seemed to be reminiscent of...  
  
He frowned in deep thought, a task he found very taxing due to the lamentations going on behind him. "SILENCE!" he roared, and they obeyed, out of surprise if nothing else. Still he fixed the tiles, deciphering a pattern. There was something here, a curve of some kind. The glow of the light spell didn't help, he reduced it slightly, poking around, moving until he had an idea of what to look for, then rose and looked at the floor entirely.  
  
Then his frown left his brow, and he began to chuckle, an amused, awed chuckle to those who had almost thwarted him. "So little seen! The plan was only a part! You begone rascals, how very cunning!" he exclaimed in his mirth.  
  
"I know this is going to sound silly to ask, especially since you have all of this figured out," Jomekin griped, his absurdly youthful face greatly negating the glare he was giving "But wouldn't you mind sharing the secret, sir. Just so we might know what is so damn funny!"  
  
Dallomir grinned at them smugly, inwardly wondering why he'd brought such fools to witness the true triumph his perfect Sheila had left behind. He remembered a time when he had valued Mellinius' knowledge and zeal. There was even a time where he had felt pity for the poor Jomekin, and had tried his best to steer the man away from his path of self-destruction. All of this today was clouded, that part of his mind seemed far away. A dream. All he could think was that Sheila had been right, and that he had no time to waste on futile explanations.  
  
As such, he merely lifted his arms and called upon the powers he had, filling his soul with the sweet power that was magic. "Energy of Eternity, Power of the Eternal Light and Darkness, bring forth your true face and allow us on our way. The Power Commands and I decree, rise and allow passage to these who know!"  
  
As his incantation ended, the rock which had been elevated split asunder, revealing golden stems which rode out of the ground, arching slightly inward, while a piece of the ceiling also split, revealing a descending globe of pure silver. The globe ended its descent far above Dallomir, who now stood in the center of the slim gold pillars, and sparked brightly, filling the room with a light outclassing normal spells. A humming noise began as the gold and silver touched, and the globe shone as the sun. Dallomir grinned in giddy realization, muttering excitedly as his low-intelligence accomplices shielded their eyes, and then gawked at the construct.  
  
"Ceipheed preserve us all." Mellinius whispered in a mixture of fear and awe. "What is that construct."  
  
"Do you not recognize it? I am disappointed in you, Mellinius. A loremaster like you should remember an Asvai-Kadellin!"  
  
"Asv...are you telling me that this actually is...?"  
  
"Yes!" he laughed "An elven transport device, which can run to long distances, hundreds of miles if I remember. Used extensively by the elven and human armies during the War of Resurrection, nearly all lost or destroyed today. So OBVIOUS! The First Knights didn't put the Hidden Lores in some Ruins! All this map is supposed to tell us is to take us where the TRUE hiding place for them are!"  
  
"Then... this means that all the traps we bypassed because of the map..." Jomekin muttered.  
  
"All deterrents. All a trick to keep us away from THIS!" he gestured at the transport device wildly. "And now we are ready! We will find the Hidden Lores they hid away so long ago!" And then he started to laugh again, uncaring of the others, uncaring of anything but one thought.  
  
Sheila, I will have your legacy fulfilled!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"AAAAAAH!"  
  
"LOOK OUT, HALLIA!"  
  
It took a moment for Hallia to register that a great boulder was falling directly on her from the ceiling, a split second to scream and realize the shouted warning Phil gave as the peril became clear. None of these were in any way helpful to her situation, and the end result would probably have been that her short life would have ended abruptly, crushed by a falling rock. So lame it wouldn't even be laughable.  
  
However, fate intervened. In the form of a large body which slammed into her, cutting off her breath, air gushing out of her lungs as she was thrown away and seemingly crushed under a terrible weight. A moment of confusion and panic followed, but by the time her wits once again gathered, it had shifted away from her. She gulped in air by mouthfuls, thankful to be alive, yet hurting from the fall and stress. Forcing herself to a sitting position, she looked right into a pained Loerik's face, who was holding one arm close to his body. He gave her a wan grin.  
  
"That was pretty close, eh, priestess? Sure glad you didn't end up flat." he gasped.  
  
She gave him back his look. "You could have been killed too, you know. Why...?"  
  
She was fortunately saved from this suddenly rather slippery and uncertain conversation by the others in the groups rushing. Fezra looked like she wanted to laugh at the incident, but couldn't her relief apparent. Berwen looked upset about it all - this not being the first time they had set off a trap in pursuit of those they by now knew were before them. Marcus and Zashtla were looking at the Boulder critically, as if they could understand everything from its surface. As for the prince, he looked ready to lunge at something to smite it, but couldn't find a target. Narie...well...luckily they had left Narie in the hands of priests back at the town. She never would have survived the stress in her precarious state.  
  
An hand came to help her up, and she took it. She rose to her feet and only then looked at the one who had helped her. It wasn't any of her friends. It was HIM.  
  
"Weeeeeellll!" Xellos said to her with that insufferable and ever-present grin. "Close is the right word! One second later, and you BOTH would have been squashed." She shivered when she almost detected a wistful note to the last part. Unreadable, and possessed of a dangerous personality, the so called 'Trickster Priest' had. She truly didn't trust him.  
  
Nor, it seemed, did the others. At his words all of the others glared, and Fezra grabbed him, dragging his face to her angry one. "What do you mean by that?!? You sound like you'd enjoy that!"  
  
"Now, I didn't say I'd ENJOY-"  
  
"And what about the fact you always seem to know about the traps but only tell us when we're just about to set the thing off." Zashtla growled, hefting a blade which should have been to heavy for her frame.  
  
He sighed, his grin disappearing. "Well, if you must know..."  
  
Everyone waited expectantly. Then the grin reappeared  
  
"...THAT is a SECRET!"  
  
Fezra punched him once. In the face. Hard. He was knocked backward, and before he could recover she was on him, obviously trying to throttle him, flinging curses at him. Although neither liked Xellos much, Marcus and Phillionel interceded, peeling the ranting sorceress off as Zashtla and Berwen looked on with a certain degree of grim amusement. Hallia shook her head and looked at Loerik, and found him clutching his arm more tightly.  
  
It was then that she realized why her chest had felt so crush, that her breath had been cut off so abruptly. He had cushioned their fall - protected her - and had broken his arm in the process. And was too darn proud to say it, too! Snorting in exasperation at the dumb feelings men sometimes entertained, she stepped to him. He regarded her arrival warily, his eyes trying and failing to hide the pain he felt.  
  
Before he could do or say anything, Hallia put her hands on the arm, focusing her powers to direct the white magic flow into a quiet healing spell. He gritted his teeth as the bones began to reset, but his face cleared again - in obvious relief - when the pain receded.  
  
"Thanks." he said fervently. She sniffed.  
  
"If you'd just told me you were hurt, I'd have healed you right away."  
  
"I know, I know. Sorry. Mercenary habits - never to show weakness - die hard." he answered with finality. Although she yearned to continue the discussion they had begun on weakness and strength, she swallowed her words and chose another burning point.  
  
"Thats twice you've directly put your life in danger for me." she swallowed, an unusual feeling making butterflies in ther body. She licked her lips. "Why did you do that? I mean, you told me it was a debt repaid with that bastard swordsman, but you owed me nothing now. Yet you just...well, thank you." she said, at a loss, her words and feelings mingling. He kept looking in her direction. Yet he wouldn't meet her eyes, she noted.  
  
"I suppose I got that from my parents and my upbringing." he said at length  
  
"Your upbringing...." she reflected on that "Wait...upbringing...what was your upbringing? I mean, you could actually read an ancient type of elvish, I..."  
  
"Kallantai."  
  
"What?"  
  
Loerik looked away. "The elvish you're talking about...its called Kallantai." he said at length, undefinable emotions playing hide and seek in his voice. His posture, his tone, everything about him told of containment, something simmering in his soul. "Its...its very ancient. I don't think...I don't think many humans would know of it today. But then I'm...special."  
  
"Special?" she asked curiously. What could he mean? He was an exceptional master swordsman, she had seen enough of those to know that much in the last three years. He was rough, yet hiding a sort of sadness. Not knowledgeable of some human lands, and yet knowing of elvish. Her eyes started to widen. He said he came from Elmekia, didn't he? But, in a legend, they say that in Elmekia...  
  
He nodded, probably reading her expression. "Right. I come from Mipross."  
  
She felt like her head would explode. Mipross? The elven lands lost to humans, disconnected from the world thirty years ago. But the elven lands...I mean, the elven lands were elvish. And the man didn't look elvish one bit, and she couldn't resist blurting it out like a fool. "But you're not an elf!" she hissed, and immediately regretted it as he flinched, his face paling a little.  
  
"No..." he swallowed hard "No, I'm not. I'm an half-elf. An half-elf who chose humans as his race when he came of age." he looked down and away from her, his face, always so strong, now vulnerable. Not knowing what she was doing, not recognizing why, she stepped forward and took hold of his forearm. He turned his face to look at her, his expression surprised. Surprised, pleased and...wasn't there a spark of something else?  
  
"C'MON YOU TWO! WE GOTTA GET GOIN'!"  
  
Fezra's bellow forced them apart, and before she could reinitiate the contact with this sad, remarkable man who held so many secrets, he had turned away, walking back to where Philionel and Marcus were arguing about how to avoid traps. Fezra bustled next to her, and Hallia, turning angrily, bumped her hand over the sorceress' head in uncharacteristic anger.  
  
"You...Fezra...sometimes you really make me want to hurt you with your attitude!" She growled, and left her friend standing there, rubbing her head and wondering. She strode to where Zashtla was and tried to forget the opening she had seen in the warrior's armor, how he had almost opened himself to her.  
  
And how she inwardly regretted that it was lost for now.  
  
________________________________________________________  
  
The Triad Army: The combined human, elven and dragon forces who fought against the mazoku hordes, ultimately stalling them enough for Ceipheed and the Water Dragon King to conclude a desperate plan which prevented Shabranigdo's full resurrection. Known as the largest army ever fielded in the world at its height, only a few hundreds of each race's soldiers survived the conflict. The most renowned of the Triad Army are the First Knights amongst Humans, The Fallah-Karai for the elves and the Five Ashgivers amongst the Dragons.  
  
Sai Lune: An historical figure. Born in obscurity, he shaped much of what is today known as White Magic, and was the most powerful human priest in the War of Resurrection and served as one of the legendary First Knights, fighting alongside people such as Gabriev and Falana of the Five Winds. After the war, he shepherded many people and built a town, of which he was crowned king by popular vote in 8 AR. At his death in 27 AR, his son renamed the town Sailune, which would become the center of culture, and the center of the powerful kingdom of the same name.  
  
AR: Current Calendar, meaning After the Resurrection. The current year is 983 AR. 


	7. Chapter Six

"They say that the war started because of madness, hard on the heels of the Elmekian invasion. That's what the historians and scribes and royals keep saying. But we knew it wasn't true. The war didn't start because there was any sort of build-up leading to the horrors and pain SHE unleashed. The war started with us. Because of us. Because, when it all came down to it...we failed a friend...  
  
-Loerik Gabriev, commenting on the Chimeric War, 997 AR   
  
Chapter Six  
  
They had crashed to the floor, spent beyond their strength. Pride couldn't hold them up, and rather than falling into a deadly trap unprepared, they had unanimously decided to rest for a while. Fezra Inverse, a young, brown haired and - let the world never forget! - extremely powerful sorcerous beauty that she was, never gave one ounce of protest, as everything on her seemed bruised despite the healing.  
  
From where she sat, she could spot some of the others. Zasthla, lounging near the only door leading out of the room they had chosen to rest. She was busy sharpening her sword with a rock, yet Fezra had no doubts that nothing escaped her eyes and ears. If danger came calling, it would find a very much ready swordswoman ready to pounce.  
  
There was the big prince to the side, sitting on the collapsed remains of what had probably been a statue of some kind, his muscular frame menacing even at rest. Fezra shook her head. If appearances deceived, Phil's simply HID. Taller than even the tall Loerik by an head, with brawns enough to intimidate by presence alone, a roaring voice and a face which simply WASN'T handsome, one would immediately mistake the man for some sort of bandit lord. However, that was the appearance. Underneath it, underneath the speeches and the roar and the intimidating physique, they had all glimpsed the future king of Sailune, and a man of honest character.  
  
And then there were THOSE two. Namely Loerik and Hallia. They were sitting on the floor, the master swordsman's legendary blade next to him, ready to be drawn in the space of a heartbeat. The green haired priestess was busy examining Loerik's arm, looking it over as the two talked in low whispers. The glow given by the magical light illuminating the room couldn't quite define their faces, but the sorceress was more than smart enough to guess. Bemused expressions, mingled with hope, uncertainty, longing. They had already started the gimmick while escaping Lumeria, but the infatuation was taking root, and the dancing which always preceded romance was beginning. It was something both amusing and frustrating to look forward to!  
  
"Watching the lovebirds, Fez?"  
  
The sorceress smirked as Berwen, her childhood friend and fellow sorceress, sat beside her. She looked strange, her eyes not as vital as she remembered, but that could be a trick of the light. "No way! I've got better things to do than stare at these two!" she whispered in mock indignation. This prompted a soft giggle from beside her, and it caused her to look at her friend again. That giggle...it had sounded strange. Not really humour, but rather...bitter resignation?  
  
"I'm sure. I think I can tell what could be attracting your interest then."  
  
She blinked, then flushed - she understood where this was going. "Now look here Berwen, you've got it all wrong..." she said, but her friend wouldn't be denied, continuing relentlessly.  
  
"I think that your main interest is of average height, dressed in a sorcerer's outfit, with red hair and good physique. Bright, dedicated almost to the point of obsession, adventurous..." she trailed off. With a sigh? Had it been a sigh. Then Berwen gave a teasing look, and the impression vanished. "Don't try to lie to me, fuzzy Fez! I can tell you're starting to feel things for this guy!"  
  
She flushed at that. "I wasn't even looking at him!"  
  
"Right. Your were looking at everyone BUT at him." she hesitated, and something flickered in her eyes before the mischief came again. "That's even worse coming from you! The boys you liked the best were always those you affected to ignore. You've got it bad. I think Loerik and Hallia are on their way to a relationship. Not you and Marcus Jaderam. But you want to. Admit it!"  
  
She couldn't fight back on that point, and it bothered her more than anyone could imagine. Marcus Jaderam. Proud, extremely confident and arrogant. Brilliant mind always bent on some new problem. She could relate him on many points, although he was more bookish and less inclined to spur-of-the-moment decisions, which made treasure hunting so fun. He wasn't someone she would have looked down upon no matter what day or year. Yet, she'd set her eyes on other men before, some of them sorcerers. What set him apart? What made him somehow more important than the others?  
  
It was rather simple in the end: the magic.  
  
Of all the guys she had ever met, there had been many winners and losers, each with their strange quirks, qualities and faults. But none of them would ever have been able to fight her to a draw, something the redhead had somehow managed to do. What a fight it had been! Fireballs and lightning bolts, wind barriers and ray wings, mano bolts and burst rondos! She had found herself fighting as hard as she'd ever had in her life, giving it all she had, and yet he held on, giving as good as he got! She had felt the adrenaline, the thrill and fear of meeting a peer, an equal.  
  
And at one point during the fight, she had almost wanted...almost, with her mind running high on the ecstasy of channelling huge amounts of magic...she had wanted...she had wanted to...  
  
She shut off the thought before it staggered to its conclusion. She wasn't ready for that, not yet. Instead she looked at her friend.  
  
"Yeah, well, we'll see. It'll take more than good looks and bein' a good mage to settle ME down! This guy's in for some major reviewing."  
  
"Well, you'll be able to start pretty soon. The 'guy' is coming to see you right now."  
  
Fezra looked and saw that, indeed, Marcus had risen from his seat against a stone wall and was shuffling to them with a confident air. Fezra stiffened at the emotions that rolled through her for a moment, and Berwen shot her a look, which, for one fraction of a moment, appeared full of something...dark? But before she could look more into it, the look was replaced a smiling face, a mask hiding something else. She couldn't delve into it before her friend was off to the other side of the room, carefully keeping herself away from Marcus' path. It didn't escape the male spellcaster, and he shot the retreating back a bemused look before continuing towards her.  
  
"Hey, Fezra." he said with confidence and yet with a sort of unease. Good. She wasn't the only one feeling uneasy. "I was poking around this text I brought about ancient traps," at that he showed her a weathered, leather-bound book "and I'd like your help on trying to find out where the First Knights laid the rest of them. I noticed you were pretty good in finding those."  
  
That sort of comment from a powerful sorcerer was rarely given, and she knew it counted for more than praise. Her ego inflated, and she was nearly puffing her chest when she replied. "You betcha I am! Better than all of you put together, that's what I am!" then her temper turned more curious. "But weren't you discussing it with that weird guy...Xellos, I think?"  
  
He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. "Didn't you notice? The guy left us a little while back. Told me he had other business to clear out and just went off with a wink and a grin!" he sounded a little upset at being brushed off like that, and she could entirely relate.  
  
Xellos. Garbed in a sort of priestly outfit, the strange man had come along suddenly, tagging along and offering little else besides cryptic sentences and an annoying habit to say 'That is a secret!' when one of them pressed. In the end she had preferred to zone him out completely, lest she start fireballing the guy out of existence. She was surprised he was gone so suddenly, especially after going out and telling them how to enter the place. But she wasn't feeling bad about him being gone. Not one bit. Behind the grin, there was something...well...creepy about him.  
  
"What a no-good, purple-haired, effeminate little slacker..." she muttered nonetheless, then looked up at her fellow sorcerer. "I guess I'll have no choice then. Gimme that book and lets start puzzling out this place before it gets us!"  
  
"Right on, Inverse!" he grinned, handing it to her before settling in closer than she imagined she would let him "With minds such as ours, there's no way this team could ever fail!"  
  
She liked that. She really did. Most of all she believed it. She knew she was way brighter than the norm, always puzzling out codes, spells and problems before anyone else, and she could easily admit that Marcus' knowledge base was wide. He was as bright as she is, perhaps more focused and scientific. Definitely not a mental loser. She found herself deciding that working with someone like that was definitely more funny than making all the decisions. Berwen always bowed to her. Him, she felt, would never bow, only bend. And even then with difficulty.  
  
She was looking for the challenge. She was looking to find something in this sorcerer. And it was only later, as they talked and she realized he had no real need for her expertise that she wondered if he hadn't come to talk to her as an excuse. To know her better. To look for something.  
  
Oh blissful, blissful uncertainty!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The battlefield.  
  
More than any other place in the world, it was when an intense melee was churning all around him, that his sword was wet with fresh blood, that the swordsman named Kalarus felt truly alive. More than gambling, more than sparring, heck, more than having a woman even! It was what gave him direction and purpose. When he was in the battlefield, he felt complete.  
  
At least, that was what he used to think.  
  
Dressed in his customized armour, a suit of mail and interlocking metal plates, with larger shoulder guards engraved with the shape of a running unicorn, his hair waving as he moved, his eyes wide and filled with a terrifying glee, he was a sight to behold. Drenched in the blood of his enemies, spurning the need for shields, he was running towards any enemy soldier he could find.  
  
Three men charged him, two armed with swords, one with an axe. Leapt towards them with a raucous laugh, deftly deflecting one of the swords and sidestepping the axe all in one single action. The axe struck the ground, wedging itself in the trampled, muddied ground. Without missing a beat, grinning widely, Kalarus pressed his boot upon it and slashed the man holding it away, cutting off the nose and plucking out an eyes in the process. The man let go of the handle, screaming in pure agony, and the third swordsman hesitated.  
  
That was a mistake, as the swordsman batted the nearby soldier's sword with his own, pushing him away, then griping the handle and heaving with all off his might, forcibly tearing the axe off. Hefting it one-handed, he proceeded to tear into his opponent, ignoring the other for the moment. He gave a terrific slash, which the man blocked, but it left his left side open, and the axe bit into flesh in one, bloody swipe. The men staggered back, and were beheaded an instant later.  
  
The third swordsman decided that the battle wasn't going well, and started running off. Kalarus would have none of that - a fight should always end with one on the floor - and he took the bloody axe, hefted it, and launched it, catching the fellow in the back. With a scream and gurgle, the soldier fell flat on his face, contorted, and then didn't move. Not far away, the axe man was convulsing in his death throes, the trauma too much for him.  
  
Eighteen dead today. Eighteen he had killed with his own hands, proving his skills as the scourge he was. No one came at him anymore. No one dared to. He was too dangerous in their eyes.  
  
It had once pleased him. Now it didn't matter. They were ordinary armsmen, with little knowledge of the true way of battle. Little things to be run over by people such as he. They were easy vermin. They weren't swordsman. They weren't Gabriev.  
  
Gabriev. Despicable man. Gabriev, the proud swordsman who'd never looked at a battlefield as he should have, instead always returning from victory disgusted. Gabriev, who should never have been so skilled with a blade. Gabriev, who had bested him when they had fought blade for blade.  
  
"UNFAIR FIGHT IT WAS, GABRIEV, I TELL YA!" he screamed, uncaring if anyone heard him in the press and melee around him. "UNFAIR FIGHT!!"  
  
Yet that didn't change the outcome, did it? Fair or not, the damnable man had beaten him, the first to EVER have managed since...since SHE had. Unacceptable. Impossible. At least she had been a warrior renowned when she had defeated him that one time, one of many battles and of hardened battle skills. Gabriev hadn't been on the battlefield for three years! How could he have gained that much strength, that much skill with a blade?!?  
  
He could remember the night as clearly as if he'd just lived it. He was having fun with a new woman, a pretty little brown-haired trollop, when a crazy girl with green hair had burst into the tent, and had attempted to attack him. Physically at that! He had fought her off, and had eventually beaten her outside, taking his blade to finish her off. And that's when that bloody damn Gabriev had come strutting with that insufferable, naive chivalry! It had irked him, and he'd challenged the black-haired man to a full-blown swordfight.  
  
He hadn't expected it to be easy; he had known the fellow was good. But Gabriev was more than good. His form was quick and precise, his blade darting with cool swiftness. Again and again their blades met, and more than one time the blows had almost gone in, until finally one had, smashing his shoulder, rendering the world fuzzy. Rage had taken over, rage and shock. But before he had attacked the insolent pup, the man had summoned a blade of magical light, and struck him down as if he was...as if he was...  
  
...Hardly worth the effort. After all, Gabriev hadn't killed him.  
  
Damn him! Damn him!  
  
How could he have lost that badly? How?  
  
The thought kept burning him no matter what he did to sate it. Once, it seemed long ago, forcing a woman to submit gave him a sort of sweet pleasure, a feeling of true dominance. No more. Now he didn't care about women. The only woman he felt he'd like to bend to him would be that green-haired witch, but that paled before the need he had to slaughter Gabriev limb by limb for his insolence!  
  
"I can't take it anymore, Gabriev! I can't take it, you dog!! DO YOU HEAR ME?? I'LL REND YOUR WITH MY HERE BLADE, I TELL YA, GABRIEV!"  
  
He would. He was certain of that. He was certain!  
  
Was he?  
  
The battle ended too soon for his taste. Only eighteen dead today. Amateurs, bloody sword-wielding peasants who didn't know the first thing about the artistry of the blade. Not one true swordsman in the bunch. He was feeling almost nauseating by the ease with which the battles were being won by the Elmekian forces now. He'd heard that it was because the King of Lumeria was pulling up all of his asset near the capital, perhaps to launch a last defiant attack, perhaps to defend Lumeria's last standing strongholds. Kalarus hoped it would be the former, yet knew that it would be the latter.  
  
It didn't matter for the present. The battle was over, and his raging shame still burned in his soul. He could see his relationship with the man who had unfairly bested him unfold.  
  
Loerik, young, hungry and desperate, enlisting in the mercenary band. Already he had been much better than many of the others.  
  
Loerik, rising in skill and prowess, until Kalarus heard talks that the black-haired swordsman might be able to beat the older mercenary. He had dismissed these talks as folly, even as stupidity. Yes, the kid was good, he'd had to give him that. But equal him? Get real here! Kalarus had years over Gabriev in swinging a sword. No one could outpace him in three short years.  
  
Yet, no matter how he looked at it, no matter how he rationalized, the fact remained that it had happened. The young man had stood his ground and won, humiliating the former number one of their band. It burned him. No one else knew but them, yet it burned. Because Gabriev was a swordsman, and would always have the right to look down at him. And that insufferable kid would! He would! He would! He knew he'd come back to gloat! In a year? Two? Three? Probably when he'd refined his techniques even more. Kalarus would be crushed, his dignity stripped away, all of that by a kid his younger by nearly a decade!!  
  
"Won't happen. Won't happen. Won't happen. WON'T HAPPEN!!" he howled, his frayed mind unable to fully take the stress. Other mercenaries looked at him fearfully and with pity as he walked out of the field of corpses. To damnation with them! What could they know?! His strength had been put under question, the thing that made him better than others. He no longer seemed invincible even to his own self. That was what Gabriev had done. That was it that was it that was it that was that was it. BASTARD.  
  
He couldn't and wouldn't live that down. Not until he had Gabriev beaten. Crushed! Reduced to nothingness! DEAD! DEAD AND BURIED!!! No more doubts after that. He would be unchallenged once more. He would have the respect he deserved, from himself if no one else.  
  
"Yup, Gabriev, yup!" he chuckled a bit shrilly, seeing everyone was avoiding him. Good. They feared his skill. Good. "You're gonna die, I tell ya! Soon, I tell ya! I'll make sure o' that, I tell ya!"  
  
And with this maddened beginning of a guffaw, Kalarus returned to his camp, dreaming his own private dream.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"FIREBALL!"  
  
The projectile was launched expertly, a powerful ball of fiery magical energy swirled in the space between Mellinius and the towering guardian of the doors. It smashed with enough force to shake the walls, the power of its heat a testament of the strength of those who mastered Black Magic.  
  
But when the fumes cleared, the immense iron golem, four times the height of a man and crafted to resemble a fully armoured elf. Jomekin grimaced as it swung its slender blade and smashed into the sorcerer's hastily erected wind barrier. It held, but wavered. The flows of magic wobbling as the mental strain began to take its toll. The childlike spellcaster thought quickly as the situation unfolded dramatically.  
  
They had made it - or nearly enough - thanks to Dallomir's instructions. Past traps and dead-ends, past false trails and deadly hopes, they had come to what was undoubtedly the central vault. It was an enormous chamber, as immense as a small temple all by itself, carved into the rock itself with finesse and a style that decidedly placed it as Elven. It was a very old place - Mellinius had supposed it might have been just under five thousand years, a relic from a time when magic was a new thing even for the elves.  
  
On the centre of the immense chamber was a dome of marble, which had its only opening in the form of a silver gate crafted to make it look as if birds and fairies were dancing about as leaves flowed among them. A work of art to be admired. Even the two guardians on each side of the door had looked marvellous in their detail, probably being made to the image of ancient elven warriors legendary when the War of Resurrection wasn't even on its way.  
  
Of course, the awe they had shared, the hopeful glee, all that had faded to blunt fear as the two guardians had activated, and had transformed into nearly full-blown panic as they resisted the magical attacks. Definitely meddling from the First Knights. They had crafted these things to make sure no one could ever enter the dome. A last-ditch effort if one managed to bypass or survive all the traps. Magic resistant, of course, and strong as the Abyss.  
  
Still...still, there must be some way to defeat them. The First Knights must have imputed a failsafe somewhere - a good idea when dealing with magical constructs. But then, wouldn't they have taken such means with them. Perhaps it truly was hopeless...  
  
That was when he noticed the orbs embedded on each side of the door - one blue, one red, the same as the one on each of the golem's chest. That was it! That just had to be it! Jomekin nearly jumped for joy, and it was only when a sword and its severed forearm crashed just behind him, forcing him down painfully, that he refrained from the need. Panting, he grimly looked over his shoulder.  
  
Dallomir had squared off against one of the guardians by himself, and had hurt it, ripping much of an arm off the thing. But the giant still walked about, ready to give its share of punishment, while the older man was visibly tiring. This couldn't go on.  
  
Without caring about Mellinius' situation, he called his senior to him, and Dallomir launched a powerful Burst Rondo at the steel construct, actually making it stumble, before coming running over. The older mage's clothes were almost wet with sweat, and it was clear from the slight tremble that Jomekin detected that the man had depleted much of his great powers in the battle. Having aided the fool who was still desperately fighting, his own reserves were low. But if his idea worked...  
  
"These constructs." he said hurriedly, they didn't have more than a few moments. "They are shielded against us."  
  
"Hard not to notice. Golem animation of that magnitude...it needs two high-level spellcasters, one in Shamanism, one in Black Magic...and more than that, such a construct would need..."  
  
"A constant power source!" Jomekin finished, seeing the Golem had stabilized and was turning towards them. He flung his arm towards the dome and the great orbs on its surface. "Like these! I sense a faint radiance. Could these be it?"  
  
"We can only hope they are!" was the hurried response as the golem began shambling towards them once more. "Run!"  
  
And they ran. With his smaller body, his childlike physical features, it wasn't a wonder that he was outdistanced quickly. Curse his frame, curse it! Still he managed to stay ahead of the golem, as the construct was slow and not build for very fast movements. Still, it was a near thing, and he prayed to all the gods that his hunch had been correct. He didn't want to die here! He couldn't!  
  
Dallomir had already reached the orb, obviously sensing them, while Jomekin was still running like mad. He pointed to the one the childlike man was heading towards. "Prepare a spell! Hit the red sphere with a shamanist attack!! Shamanist, nothing else!"  
  
Jomekin barely had the time to register the shouted order before he stumbled. Whether a snag or his fatigue had managed to land him in this predicament meant nothing. He crashed face first to the floor, breaking his nose, breath cut off. Fear shot through him, fear that reached paroxysm of panic when he heard the golem right behind him, ready to crush him. His composed mind nearly fled, yet something held within the strange man. Something at his core forced him to heave upward, channelling all of his magic at the risk of burning his own body out. The rumble was close.  
  
"NOW, JOMEKIN!" Dallomir shouted, as he worked a spell, creating a force made of shadows. The golem was just behind him, and Jomekin screamed what might well be his last spell.  
  
"BRAM GUSH!!" he shouted, immediately followed by Dallomir's "DARK CLAW!"  
  
A spell of shamanism hit the red orb at the moment one of black magic hit the blue one. Energy crackled within both, an inner light shone brightly, then went still just as suddenly. Jomekin held his breath, closing his eyes, waiting for the end.  
  
The Golem's steps could no longer be heard. Tentatively, he raised his head, twisted his body to the side, and looked behind him. The golem had stopped barely three steps from stepping on him, and the other one was standing just as still, facing a spent and dazed Mellinius. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, chuckling to relieve the fear he had felt, the childlike sorcerer pushed himself to his feet while Dallomir, just ahead, was whooping.  
  
"Just as I thought!" the man was shouting. "We inverted the energies, forcing the constructs into a dormant state until the energies level back for the spells to work..."  
  
"What happened? Did we do it?" Mellinius breathed, wobbling near them. His composure regained, Jomekin only gave him a sneering look before responding.  
  
"I think that's plain. For now at least. And no thanks to your superb brand of help." he wasn't fazed by Mellinius' angry flush. Why was this one here, anyway?  
  
"Let us go. Our power awaits us!" Dallomir announced in triumph. Without adding anything further, he walked to the entrance, and started murmuring words while holding what appeared to be a key made of glass. Within a few moments, it began to glow, until it shone like a piece of the sun.  
  
"Spirit of all that protects, allow me to enter this sacred hall, for my need is great and my time passing." the older mage said slowly and clearly, holding the shining key aloft in front of the carved door. "I ask for thy help, for thy opening. By the Brand of Oerlus, I beseech you, open your doors and help me in my need!"  
  
The key flashed once, then again, then again. More quickly, until it flashed so much it hurt Jomekin's eyes. And then, like drops of stars released from a cosmic jar, it burst into many pieces, striking the door, engulfing it, until it shone in a surreal gold. And opened, silently, upon magical hinges. At once, the feel of magic intensified, becoming a true gale. He couldn't believe it. His senses were overwhelmed. It almost seemed to be a living thing.  
  
"This power. All of this is brimming with ancient magics..." Mellinius whispered in awe, and for once, the man-child had nothing to say, merely nodding his head in total bewilderment. Even their leader seemed fazed by what he felt. Before he broke into a grin of anticipation, of unadulterated pleasure.  
  
"We have found them. The Hidden Lores. Some of them anyway. What the First Knights sealed away so carefully, is now ours for the taking! Let us go, gentlemen, and take all we can so we can save Lumeria!"  
  
"And other things besides..." Jomekin muttered, but he followed the others as eagerly as a puppy presented with a really, really, juicy bone.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Fedoniel Parrel Di Sailune, Protector of the Light, Lord of the City of White Magic, Priest Emeritus of the Order of Ceipheed and the forty-six kings following the noble steps first traced by Sai Lune the Blessed, was a patient man. Ever since his youth, and the tumultuous marriage, which he suffered through in many ways, he had kept a solid grip on situations, and had rarely let his temper get the better of his judgement.  
  
However, today he was having difficulty restraining himself, for his eldest son, Philionel, had not returned from yet another foolish quest. Another political blunder to add to his wayward heir. And not a small one, this time! He could understand forays when no pressing matters of state were stirring. He couldn't endorse them, but at least he could understand - Phillionel had always been too adventurous for his own good.  
  
But to be absent the day one's promised wife - the niece of another nation's leader no less! - was absolutely inexcusable.  
  
His eyes drifted from the nobles and well-dressed courtiers waiting to either side of the throne room's wide halls, sliding over the ranks of knights holding position, in polished armour, an honour guard waiting for the person to honour. He barely saw the red carpet of rich Lizeillian Duvet, a thick, gold-embroided line from the wooden doors to the steps leading to the king's throne. He didn't care for any of this. Instead his gaze fell on the boy of fourteen who was holding himself like a young lord already. His youngest son, and the one who resembled him the most.  
  
"Christopher. You say Philionel gave you no indication of the time he would return. What did he say?"  
  
The young man stiffened slightly. "As I have told you, Father, Philionel only told me of his intent to venture into some of our lands to investigate."  
  
"Investigate." the King scoffed, glad they were keeping the conversation too low for the people to overhear. "His 'investigations' have often nearly cost him his life!"  
  
"But if I may, Father. They may have endangered him, but the risks he willingly took are paying off in the end. Already the people loved him." his youngest told him, his tone meticulously polite, yet ever so slightly defensive. "I am certain Phil...ionel has a good reason for not making this event."  
  
He had never been able to understand it. Philionel took his personality almost squarely from his departed wife - a woman of intelligence but of burning idealism, while Christopher had inherited Fedoniel's pragmatism more than anything else, as had his second son Randy, who was busy even now learning on how to be a priest. Yet it was as if the sibling between them didn't exist. From the first days, Christopher had trotted behind Philionel instead of Randy. They had done everything together, and a solid bond had formed between them, heightened and tempered by their mother's death, only four years past.  
  
He could admit his heir had done well then. If he had grieved, it had been privately. Instead he had focused his efforts on helping Randy and Christopher pull through. While Randy had rejected the help, Christopher had clung to his oldest brother for support. Ever since then, the young one had always taken the heir's part in all things, rarely ever disagreeing.  
  
Children. They were even worse of a headache than the one, which had been faintly pummelling at the back of his head. He was glad he hadn't taken part in their upbringing; it would have driven him mad.  
  
Suddenly the doors opened to admit the royal crier, who uttered in stentorian voice. "Her Royal Ladyship Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, and her entourage!" At that he bowed, and stepped to the side. That was the signal. The Knights, already at attention, stiffened so that they looked liked statues, half of the nobility and wealth of the realm hooked their eyes towards the opened door, and trumpets sounded clear, triumphant notes in perfect symphony.  
  
Two knights entered first, dressed in the armour and colours of Elmekia. They bowed swiftly and precisely, and stepped to the edge of the red carpet. Then she came. Valmatia, the emperor's niece. Dressed in an intricate sky blue gown embroided with gold and silver, a belt of cream-coloured silk around her abdomen, she wore her dark hair perfectly combed and straight, cascading down her shoulders, yet never hiding the circlet of gold gifted with a ruby, a sign of her royal blood. She stepped ahead of the knights, followed by they and four maids. Her step was graceful yet firm, her beauty ripe despite her age, and her face showed a dignity befitting a queen, as well as a sparkle of wit and cunning.  
  
The king congratulated himself. She was perfect. Yes. Perfect. She would be the ideal consort for his fool of an heir to have. Perhaps she could bring some sense into the lad. He certainly had never managed to.  
  
The small cohort passed bowing and curtsying nobility, and stopped near the marble stairs leading to the White Throne. Both knights went to one knee and the maids curtsied in reverence. Valmatia, for herself, bowed her head in respectful acknowledgement.  
  
Pushing his runaway thoughts aside, still congratulating himself despite it, the King nodded his head gently. "Honoured Lady Valmatia, I give you welcome to the capital of Sailune. I dare hope your journey has been without incident?"  
  
She raised her head, and her youthful face looked the king calmly in the eye. Yes, indeed, this one was born to be a queen. "You do me much honour, Your Majesty. And I am touched by your graceful concern. Indeed, my way has been freed of harm, and no danger ever muddied the tranquility of my travelling."  
  
King Fedoniel sincerely hoped so, especially with the four hundred Sailune armsmen he had sent as an escort. But he liked the tone she had taken. Respectful, but not too much. Firm, not arrogant. He fancied himself a good judge of character, and he saw no fault yet in this one that could impede his goals. Magnificent.  
  
"I am pleased to hear this. Think of this castle - no, this whole Kingdom - as your own. For from now on you will have the same powers as any of the royals, save for myself and my heir, Crown Prince Philionel."  
  
Again she bowed her delicate head for a moment. "Your kindness flatters my, Your Majesty." then a slight squint took over her eyes. "If I may ask, however: where may the Crown Prince be located. I did not see him in this assembly. I see only Prince Christopher. But I hope I am not too forward. If so, please forgive me, my King."  
  
He had known she would ask the question, had been ready and prepared for it, yet those simple words managed to put him slightly ill at ease. Was it the slight inflection in her voice, was it the very subtle change in her posture. Whatever it was, it spoke of her disapproval at her chosen husband not being present. He couldn't fault her for the thought, and that made him draw upon his many years of diplomacy to cover his eldest son's unforgivable faux pas.  
  
"Yes, I was certain you would notice." he answered smoothly, his face perfectly serene. "The Crown Prince was sent on my orders in a routine survey to look on southern lands. It is important for him to know the land he will one day rule." he privately hoped he'd be quite dead when it happened - he didn't want to cede the throne to the boy, his whims would probably destroy the powerful country so many generations of House Sailune had worked to build.  
  
It was a lie. She could feel it in him, he knew. She had had training like most royals had, and the people of Elmekia, living in a land where intrigue could be so dangerous, were especially good at rooting out untruths. Yet she didn't say anything on the matter, only raised an eyebrow for a single moment, indicating she didn't believe a word of what he'd just said, before bowing one more time.  
  
"Wise words, Your Majesty. I acknowledge and accept them."  
  
At that, Fedoniel rose from his throne, all eyes fixed on him. He descended the stairs regally, until he faced his future daughter. He asked her to turn around, which she did, facing the assembly of nobles.  
  
"Noble of Sailune, faithful friends," he called. "I present you Crown Princess Valmatia Della, your future Queen!"  
  
At once the nobles started to cheer, shouting things like "Long live Sailune!" and "Bless the Crown Princess!" They were all quite taken by her beauty and her noble bearing, he saw. She had, in a few minutes of presence, done what had taken his eldest son years - she had gained the admiration of the nobility. She would be perfect to keep the bumbling Philionel from doing too much damage to the country when the idealistic fool's time came.  
  
Yes, overall he had done the best thing for his beloved Kingdom!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
There was a quality to loneliness. A deep quality, actually, in that you were absolutely free to rummage through your thoughts and your feelings without anyone saying a word on it. It WAS Something she had excelled at, when she had been just a young girl in a backwater village in Zefielia. Although she had grown a bit rusty after joining her Guild, training to become a sorceress and then following Fezra around, mostly keeping her out of trouble. She had not had many instances of loneliness then.  
  
But for the past few weeks, she had had increasing amounts of practice and had gotten back in shape.  
  
She didn't understand how it had happened, really. It had initially only been a whim on Fezra's part, to help prisoners escape. Just another escapade, like so many before then. But it had been different that time. The swordsman and the two priestesses - one of whom had been severely traumatized - went on a journey to reach Sailune, dodging both Elmekian and Sailunean patrols. Fezra and she had stuck to them. Just another whim. Except Fezra had taken a liking to stable priestess named Hallia, a sort of respect for Loerik Gabriev and sympathy for poor, hurt Narie. Things had changed, but the loneliness hadn't yet cloaked her. Although less present, Fezra still talked to her about anything pertaining to Black Magic.  
  
And then he had come. Marcus Jaderam. A young mage, red haired, arrogant and powerful, wise and straightforward, he had taken the stage and pushed Berwen outside completely. For although Berwen was a skilled sorceress, her powers paled next to his. He was Fezra's equal, a fact he had proven when he had fought her to a draw. Her old friend had been frustrated when she's found out she hadn't actually won the fight, and yet completely taken.   
  
It had sparked something between the two. And now she looked back to see Loerik and Hallia walking side by side, making every effort to look casual and yet each giving the other looks of longing. Fezra and Marcus were just behind them, muttering excitedly about something, making extravagant gestures. Even Philionel and Zashtla, although not being romantic towards each other, were in a friendly conversation. Everyone had a bond to each other in some ways. Except for her. Perhaps it was fate?  
  
"Interesting. Other travellers." a voice cackled "Are you seeking the Hidden Lores? If so, you come too late."  
  
Berwen couldn't believe it. One moment the corridor they were travelling through was empty of everything but mold and dust. The next, three men stood there - although one looked like a child with old, mature eyes. She had felt no presence, no shift of power, and they were standing what, fifteen feet in front of her? How could she have missed it? Had her mind wandered off that far?  
  
She pushed that thought for later, instead taking in the expressions of those who had arrived by unknown means. They had a tired look, all three of them. Bruised beyond what healing could do in the field, their sorcerer outfits in tatters, and yet they had eyes that spoke of triumph, of a mission well accomplished. And for the oldest and tallest, the elegant man who had surely spoken, there was something more. A light in them that filled her with fear.  
  
She put her hands together, summoning the power of black magic. It came, tingling around her skin, drawing on her fear and loneliness. More powerful. Was her loneliness the strength of her magic, as Fezra's temper was? Behind her, she heard movements, and a flash of bright light following the uttered 'Light Come Forth!' words. In her state of semi-trance, she vaguely heard the other stepping closer behind her.  
  
"Are you the ones who are after the Hidden Lores?" Marcus' voice rang out coldly. This seemed to amuse the tallest of the trio.  
  
"Yes, you are right. But not after them, mind you..." his smile became even more triumphant. "Because we have the Lores we sought."  
  
"What?!?" Zashtla growled.  
  
"Fiends! Don't you know the dangers of that knowledge? It was sealed for a reason!"  
  
"A reason..." the child with adult eyes muttered. "They were sealed by idealistic fools who only saw the dangers and none of the benefits, a tired band who wanted to make sure no one ever came close to their powers."  
  
"That's twisting history to your own advantage. The First Knights only wished for humans not to use such dangerous spells and concepts! The scriptures tell of the devastation these things wrought in the War of Resurrection!" Hallia shouted in indignation. The tall sorcerer sighed.  
  
"Believe what you will, if it pleases you. The fact is that I have what I want, and I wish to depart. So if you will excuse us, we will take our leave."  
  
"Ohhh, I DON'T think so, buddy!" Fezra growled, and Berwen felt magical energies being gathered for a spell. "We just can't let you walk off with those things! BURST RONDO!!"  
  
Spheres of energy streaked past Berwen, aiming for the man standing before her. The three seemed unperturbed by the power coming their way, although one of them, the one who looked and felt most normal held a pined expression, as if the confrontation itself left a bad taste in his mouth. The one in front, however, only flung one of his arms, which she saw sported a strange armband, green and red and gold, with filaments of blues connecting each section. The effect was immediate. The Burst Rondo dissipated like snow in a strong wind.  
  
"If that is your wish...then by all means." the man said. And at that pandemonium was joined.  
  
Marcus fired a fireball, which was deflected as well, as the two sorcerers on both sides of the tall one fired Flare Arrows. Berwen erected a Wind Barrier, but was knocked to her knees when they impacted. The power of those spells was obviously increased somehow. Loerik sped past her with Zashtla, slashing at the two, as Marcus appeared next to her and let loose with an Elmekia Lance. The walls shook as powers met, but Zasthla's blade was deflected by the man-child's magical barrier, to be immediately knocked back by a magical gust of wind. A fireball formed in his hands, streaking towards the stunned swordswoman.  
  
"MOS VARIM!" Came Hallia's voice in the nick of time, as a ball of magical energy absorbed the fireball. Hallia appeared on Zasthla's side, and both women faced the man-child with determined mien.  
  
On the other side, Loerik and Philionel were squaring off against the least frightening of the three, who was nonetheless giving them quite a workout. A Flare Arrow burst towards Phil, who slapped his hands in a strange fashion, shouting. The Flare arrow burst on him, yet he emerged only slightly singed. Loerik rushed forward at that, bringing his magical blade squarely against his enemy's shield. The man staggered, but sent a pulse of magical strength, which pushed the swordsman away. Both men, however, were barely getting started, and carefully closed in upon their enemy.  
  
It left Fezra Marcus and she to take care of the one with the frightening eyes, who stood calmly to withstand their assault. The armband he wore shrugged off conventional spells. His own attacks impacted over Berwen's Windy shield in response, sending her to her knees. Hearing her groan, he gave off an amused, superior chuckle.  
  
"Fools. With this armband I can't be hurt by magical attacks! You efforts are useless."  
  
Beside her, Marcus smirked. "Wouldn't be so sure of that. VICE FLARE!!" he shouted, and the huge gout of fiery energy impacted the ground near the sorcerer, knocking him off his feet. Both Marcus and Fezra rushed the man as he lay down, but he was up with surprising speed. He had his hand up and shouted the last thing one should shout in an underground corridor.  
  
"DUG HAUT!"  
  
Berwen barely had the time to stand before the effect of the spell worked its deadly magic. The walls cracked like thunder, splitting, pieces falling everywhere, as the place they were could shook crazily. She stumbled, and before she knew it, she had fallen next to the strange man. Events blurred in her eyes - the manic sorcerer pulling a scroll as the other two staggered to him in panic, Loerik looking upward in terror, Marcus, Fezra and Hallia with their hands towards each other.   
  
Energy started building in her. The spell! The man was casting a spell. Frightfully she started to heave herself upward, away from them, but fate wasn't with her. A rock from the ceiling hit her behind the head hard, and brought her down. Her mind became muddled, and she barely had the time to register the three men were looking at her in surprise before a white light enveloped her.  
  
Then consciousness fled. Darkness took over. And her thoughts became those of the void.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The corridor had caved in, tons of rock crashing down, forever putting the lower chambers out of man's reach. Walls carved by elves long ago, walked by elves and later man, were no longer. Only a pile of stones remained, a testament to the destruction a sorcerer's thoughtless reaction had done.  
  
Then the stones glowed red and burst open, revealing bruised adventurers, three men and three women, all of them wearing frantic expressions as they ran out of that section, the three with sorcerous power holding on to a magical barrier until they were in a stable part of the catacombs.  
  
They ran long, until they couldn't help but sit, too tired to do anything else.  
  
"That was too close. Too close." gasped a black-haired man in armour, clutching a green-haired woman who seemed as equally frightened and stunned as he. "Those bastards nearly buried us alive!"  
  
"But we survived." another of the men, one with red hair, replied with frown "The problem is that they did as well. I saw them - phasing out just before I got to busy holding the shield."  
  
One of the women looked up from where she was sitting. "Damn it anyway! We got trashed back there. We can't take those three together again."  
  
"Yet we must stop them!" the biggest and youngest of the males intoned in a deep voice. "We can't let them have that power! If we do..."  
  
"Where's Berwen?" the muscular woman asked, looking around. That stopped the conversation cold as the small team realized one of theirs was missing. Shocked faces looked at each other, horror and confusion on their faces...  
  
.... and far away, on a plane of existence unreachable by mortals, an entity looked down and smiled to itself.  
  
Events were set. History was ready to unfold.   
  
________________________________________________________ 


	8. Chapter Seven

"I think there's nothing worse than defeat for a new group. And nothing better. Worse because it tells us that our combined strength can fail at times, better because we thereafter strive harder to succeed. However, in our case, the defeat was dire. Berwen, one from our group, had been taken away by those who had despoiled the temple sealed by the First Knights so long ago.  
  
However, we never imagined how dire the consequences would be."  
  
- Excerpt from Hallia's memoirs, 994 AR  
  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
  
Many couldn't help but to see the travellers entering the inn.  
  
Some of the villagers vaguely recalled seeing them a good while ago, but even they stared as the group entered. The first to enter was a fit man of average height and stature with a flowing red mane of hair, dressed in the red and gold suit and black cloak usual of many of the sorcerer's guild. He looked around with a disinterested air before entering. With him came a woman, only slightly smaller than he, with brown hair and large eyes. She was garbed similarly, and her looks spoke of self-recrimination and anger.  
  
Behind them came a man and two women. The man was tall, taller than most of the other men in the common room, dressed in partial armour and wearing a sword with the ease of a campaigner. His black hair was cut short, and his piercing gaze seemed to give him a hardness, which contradicted the tentative hand he had put on the shoulder of one of the women. She walked garbed in the garments of a travelling priest, and her fair face was rendered magnificent by the stunning green hair that went far below her shoulders. On the other side came another woman, taller than the male sorcerer, more muscled then any of the women in the village, garbed in leather armour with a sword strapped on her back. The look she gave around was cold and somewhat defeated  
  
Closing the march was a giant. No other word could safely describe him. Although obviously barely full-grown, the man towered over even the tall warrior, broad chested, with thick muscular arms and legs, which could crush bones like twigs if he meant to do it. He was garbed in a traveller's outfit, yet it was perhaps of finer quality than the others. Although his face wasn't handsome, there was softness to it which somewhat made him less threatening than some of the others in the group.  
  
All of them looked sad or angry or both. All of them looked defeated. And most of all, they all carried themselves with strength and resolve. This convinced the villagers to return to their drinks, trying hard not to look at them as they all silently sat at a table.  
  
Phil saw the whole thing from his perspective, saw the peasants gauged him and his friends, and didn't care a wit for it. None, it seemed, did the others as the unusual thick silence lengthened between them. That sort of thing wasn't to the liking of one like he, and so after it had become unbearable, he broke it the only way he knew how.  
  
"We have been...defeated, my friends." he said at last. This, at least, got their attention "However, we must not despair! If we do, we give the enemy exactly what he wants!!" Gods, but that sounded tired and lame. But he couldn't do better at the moment.  
  
Marcus nodded wearily. "You're probably right at that - despair won't change a thing. But the fact remains; we got caught into a fight we probably would have lost to begin with. We were unprepared and -"  
  
"Then let's BE prepared!" this resounding, angry announcement came from Fezra, who banged the table and half-stood. "So we got caught with our pants down! At least we know what we're dealing with here! They're powerful bastards, but I think we could take them one if all of us went in with a good battle-plan!"  
  
"That's assuming we find where they went, and assuming they don't learn too much about what they stole from the temple." Hallia reminded her, sending the waiter away with an impatient wave of her hand. Beside her, Loerik looked sombre and thoughtful.  
  
Marcus nodded vigorously. "Right, that's it. We need to find more information about the Hidden Lores. We wanted to stop them from getting them, but now that they have taken them, our options are limited until we learn what-"  
  
"I don't CARE what they do! Who CARES what they do?!? All I know is that they're certainly going to test them on Berwen!" Fezra cut him off angrily.  
  
That shut everyone up, and settled the pall of defeatism more firmly on their shoulders. Berwen. Probably the member of the group, which kept to herself the more, rarely talking. She had seemed nice enough, however, when she did. And beyond all of this, she had stuck by them all, she had been part of their group. Phil knew they all itched to go get her out of whatever mess she was in with the three sorcerers.  
  
Zashtla, always looking tough and ready, only fractionally inclined her head before breaking the silence. "Although you and Marcus have deduced that Berwen could only have been taken along with them as they vanished with this spell of theirs, it doesn't help us figure out WHERE she is."  
  
"That was exactly my point." Marcus agreed  
  
"It would help if we knew who we were dealing with." Phil reminded them, recalling the hard-taught geography lessons his tutors had crammed into him. "To narrow down our search. Lumeria isn't the largest country, but its still very large, and we don't have the kind of time to make many mistakes."  
  
Everyone considered this for many moments. "Well," Zashtla said at last "I think we're safe in thinking this place they're in hasn't been touched by the war yet, or they wouldn't have the time to learn anything. This means behind the front lines. The southern regions?"  
  
Loerik nodded uncertainly. "The extreme southern regions then. Lumeria's army is falling apart on every front." He winced at Hallia's flinch, but pressed on. "The capital'll soon be under attack. Once it falls, the loss of morale will make everything else crumble quickly enough. I dunno. If they're in the extreme south, near the Great Ridge, they have four to six months."  
  
"Still, that's too much territory to cover. We'd need-"  
  
"Dallomir."  
  
This unexpected burst from Hallia caught them flat-footed. "Who?" Marcus asked tentatively while Fezra looked with dangerous attention.  
  
"The leader of that trio. I saw him, once, years ago. He came to talk with the High Priest in my temple. I'm pretty sure his name was Dallomir." She jumped slightly as Fezra slapped the table angrily.  
  
"And NOW's the time you tell us his freaking name? We already lost a damn weak, and you couldn't find the damn name in all that TIME?!?"  
  
"Well, Fezra. I...I was very young when he visited. A novice, barely entered into the temple."  
  
"Who cares about that?!? You KNEW the name and you took your sweet little time telling us. And now because of your slow-poke memory, Berwen might-"  
  
"LAY OFF, FEZ!!!" Loerik boomed, rising from his seat and putting his face right in front of her, eyes angry. "Don't you DARE put the blame on her! You're acting like a damn bitch because Berwen's been taken, and I understand that! But don't point fingers at us! YOU were the one nearest her when she teleported! What about that?"  
  
Two hardened pair of eyes stared at each other in a silent, angry clash of will, neither backing down. Patrons around the table looked more than uncomfortable about the idea of a sorceress and swordsman fighting near them, but too scared to do much about it. Phil, for his part, hadn't a clue how to disrupt the event. Indeed, he wondered if he could remain impartial if he tried. Ever since Berwen had been taken, Fezra had been extremely hard to live with, and he couldn't help but sympathize with Loerik for snapping at her.  
  
Finally, it was Marcus who did something before the tension escalated into violence. Rising stiffly, he took a firm hold of Fezra's shoulder and tried to get her to turn towards him. When she wouldn't, he narrowed his eyes. "Fez, I think it would be best if we had a talk, you and I." he said.  
  
"Not right now." She muttered, her eyes not leaving Loerik's.  
  
"I INSIST that we do so right this moment, Fezra." he grated, and at that she did turn to him, angrily, ready for a fight or an argument...to face a blank wall in place of a face. She looked back at Loerik, then at Hallia, then back at Marcus, and her eyes narrowed. With a snarl, she moved towards the door, the other man right behind her. As the door closed behind them at last, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. This had been too close.  
  
"I sure hope those two don't kill each other." Zashtla drawled.  
  
"Quite frankly, I hope Marcus doesn't get killed." Loerik muttered, sitting down heavily "Right now, I'm not sure about Fezra. Anyway, we have a name now, so we can probably find his hole. But the question is, what happens when we do find it?"  
  
To that, no one had a ready answer.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"That, that, that...big, dimwitted, smelly, sword-waving JERK!! Who does he think he is, telling me to back off?! Lousy swordsman, and lousy dimwitted priestess for not remembering things when she should. I should blast them both, here and now, may be it'd make them more sensible!!"  
  
Marcus waited until the worst of the torrent passed. "Are you finished?" he asked neutrally, keeping his emotions in check. Its didn't really help matters, he found, as she turned away from him and kept on ranting.  
  
"I'm not even beginning to unwind, pal! I thought they actually cared about what's happening to Berwen, but-"  
  
"They do care. You haven't listened to them, have you? Why do you think they're talking about finding those guys, anyway? I think you should consider that before going into such a senseless rage."  
  
"Senseless, is it? Well, you can think it senseless if you want, but as for me, I think that because of Hallia, we're a week behind where we should be, and that's a fact!"  
  
"No, its not! Come on, I know you're much more intelligent than this, I've seen you think things through. Think THIS through!" He said, his temper getting the better of him despite all of his efforts. "You can't expect her to readily remember something which happened for a few moments years ago. It wasn't a very dramatic event. So we're actually LUCKY she found the name only after a week, seeing that we were injured, that we were travelling, and had so much on our minds! I shouldn't even be telling you this! You should have made this conclusion as fast as I did. I think your concern is blinding you, Fezra. Get over it quickly."  
  
He didn't understand it fully, but he felt empty while he went on with this tirade. It wasn't usual with him. When Marcus Jaderam went and put someone in his or her place - and he had done that a lot - he did it with arrogance, sometimes with hints of malice. He usually loved telling someone off, to tell that person that she was wrong and he was right. Not this time. This time, there was no arrogance that he could muster. There was no malice either. Just frustration at many days of bad temper directed at everything beside him. Frustration, and that damned, strange emptiness.  
  
He couldn't understand what it could mean - maybe he didn't want to. But he knew that at this moment, which it was irrelevant. There was a problem growing and he felt he was the best to handle it. Hallia wasn't high on Fezra's list right then, Loerik would probably end up fighting her, Phil would be too hesitant, and Zashtla wouldn't know what to say that much. That left him to do this job. He didn't like it, but he had taken it, and he wasn't one to stop until he did what he came for.  
  
When she didn't respond, he took that as his cue to press on. "Ever since the battle, you've looked to us like it was our fault. You told me things - some of them true, most of them not so - and you did the same to the others. In fact, you kept hounding us about our failings and our problems, and not once - not ONCE - did I hear you admit that you had done any wrong." he took a deep breath. This was the punchline. "I think it means that you know you failed, and that you're getting angry at us because you're angry at yourself, at your mistakes."  
  
She didn't look at him, only kept looking at the houses nestled around the inn, at the busy smithy farther off, and at the farmers and peddlers milling about. "How do you know that's what I think?" she asked.  
  
He shrugged. "You told me she was your friend, but I rarely saw you talk to her. Someone as bright as you must have realized how she must have felt. But she's not here to apologize, so how can you relieve your guilt? And then there's the battle. Berwen, you and I fought this...Dallomir. You were the closest to her when things fell apart, and you must know that if someone could have done something, it should have been-"  
  
"STOP!"  
  
He did with a sigh. "I'm only telling you what you already know."  
  
"I know. Just...stop."  
  
Fezra looked at the passing villagers around her for many long moments before leaning against the inn's wall. Her eyes were shadowed, and the sadness felt there was sharp and true. Marcus didn't know what he was about to hear, yet waited, expectantly.  
  
"We never have many friends growing up, us wizards, right?" she asked introspectively "I mean, real friends, with whom we can do anything, share everything. We don't have a lot of those growing up."  
  
He frowned in pained discomfort. He had had friends growing up. Back when he didn't know he had magic in him. When his mother had been alive and well, and he had had a family. A family which had turned against him in the worst possible way, and killed the person who had cared for him the most out of selfish ignorance. Friends he had had. Or had thought so, once. But it had all turned out to be a lie, no?  
  
"You're right. We don't." he finally said, unable to find better words for it.  
  
She nodded. "But you see, that's what Berwen was. A friend. And by that I mean a real one. We've known each other since we were little, we've done all kinds of mischief. We even studied magic together. Yes, she was a friend. And a very good one." her look, which had been wistful, became more sombre. "But, then again..."  
  
"Yes?" he prompted. She gave him a look, then looked away again.  
  
"Then again, I was never able to fully connect with her. She never had what I wanted from someone. She didn't have the same...passion for travelling and adventuring. Nobody did. And then I helped a swordsman and two priestesses escape some freaky mercenaries."  
  
Marcus considered this last revelation. It made sense. Loerik was used to the mercenary trade - although perhaps not by choice - and seemed to take risks when he wanted to. Hallia had her own streak of this born of the Lumerian-Elmekian conflict, Phil was always ready for a challenge, and Zasthla always took whatever came her way calmly. Even he himself liked to undertake ventures into the unknown at times. But not Berwen. She had never struck him as that type of person. And that, perhaps, was why she had been just about ostracized from the band, with newcomers like Phil and he fitting in fast as she remained in the sideline.  
  
That must have been hard to take, he wagered to himself. Hard enough to hold some resentment. Yet, she never seemed to show any. Not that he had looked, or cared. Although it shamed him to admit it, he hadn't interacted with her like he had with the others. He hadn't known her.  
  
"I see what you mean. At least, I think I did. But that doesn't change the fact that it wasn't our fault. Yours or ours. As far as we know, she stumbled near them and got teleported by sheer accident. We'd never have been able to know that this would happen, much less react. After all, we were reacting to the imminent collapse of the passage."  
  
She waved at him negligently. "I know. I know. I didn't want to know it, and I wasted my own anger on the others and on you. Marcus, its just that I...I'm sure that there's something we can do! Something we can do to help her out of there!" Her look was both pleading and determined, full of the willpower he had admired from the first time he had even seen her. He opened his mouth to answer, but was beat to the punch by another voice.  
  
"A confident declaration. And perhaps not an untruthful one. I think that there IS a way to help your friend, from what I've heard, Marcus Jaderam."  
  
Marcus spun around to see two unexpected people standing not too far off, looking at them. The first one he didn't know. A lanky fellow dressed in what seemed to be a more ornate version of an apprentice garb looked out with serious eyes. And next to him...  
  
He blinked as he recognized the young woman. "But aren't you...Narie?" And then he was pushed away with vigour as Fezra came to the fore.  
  
"Narie?!? What the?! What are you doing here?? I thought you were resting at a temple where Hallia left you, way south of here!!"  
  
The young priestess looked back with eyes still broken, but at least holding together now. "Yes. I was, but this man wanted to find you. He comes from Rezo the Red Priest to aid you all."  
  
"Rezo?" Marcus gasped, looking at the serious young magi. "And who are you?"  
  
The man bowed slightly. "Lionel Greysword, Rezo's apprentice. I think that we should enter. Night will fall soon, and winds are chilly these days." he grinned slightly "And I just might have a way to help your friend."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Mellinius wasn't one who often allowed himself to entertain any doubts. He shirked them as much as he could, in fact. He was a follower of the philosophy that doubts only led to mistakes, and that mistakes made in doubt often were fatal. All successes came with certainty. That was the way he had always held himself, and so he had risen quickly above other apprentices in the Guilds, and had quickly become a man who followed his ideas without flinching, and a powerful sorcerer.  
  
No, doubts weren't something he entertained. But he had to, these days. After all, he was seeing something unfolding, right outside of his reach, a plot that he wasn't sure would benefit his country, even though its situation was now desperate.   
  
"Make chimeras?" Mellinius grunted "Sir, you can't be serious."  
  
Dallomir only smiled at his sceptical tone. "On the contrary, my dear Mellinius. That is exactly what I propose to do."  
  
Never once had he thought that Dallomir could find the wrong way to handle a problem. In all the time he had known the older mage, things had always come true, solutions had always been found to satisfy everyone. Even during most of the war, he had been composed and controlled in his decisions and his temper, always advising the king and his war council as best as he could. Even the death of his so-beloved wife hadn't affected him too terribly, or so it would appear.  
  
But this. Making chimeras was a practice, which had been used long ago by Lei Magnus as he began the War of Resurrection. He had made himself a cadre of extremely powerful chimeras, which had caused terrible destruction until they had fallen - barely at that - at the hands of the First Knights' combined might. Chimeric research had been completely banned for centuries, and only in the last century had some resumed. Sorcerous circles looked upon most of it darkly. And in Lumeria, such people wanted nothing to do with what they called 'the worst kind of necromancy'.  
  
"The elders will never give us their leave to conduct experiments." he said "Even if it is to save Lumeria. It simply goes against too many of our traditions. They'd never let us have the knowledge you have gleaned."  
  
Seated in a comfortable chair near the tower room's window, Jomekin grinned that twisted cherubic grin of his. "Oh, come of it. Don't you think that these old fools don't have anything better to gripe about? Like, oh, thousands of troops from the Imperial Army pouring down their collective throat?"  
  
"Even so..."  
  
"There is no need for you to be so alarmed, Mellinius." the older mage said easily. "To stop us, they would have to know about it. I don't intend to give them this privilege. This will be my...OUR little project!"  
  
"No notifying the elders?" He had truly never thought of doing that. Wasn't their solution supposed to be for the benefit of the entire nation. Why should they hide it at all. A sick feeling of dread began to see in his bones as the other two looked at him. No fear or uncertainty there. They looked as serene as anyone could hope to look. That's when it fully hit him. They had never intended to tell the elders. All of this talk about the old men having nothing better to do had been for him. To calm him down. To keep his mouth shut.  
  
For the first time - probably far too late - he realized how dangerous a situation he was in.  
  
"Yes. No one. Surely, you understand the necessity of keeping this secret? Imagine if the Elmekians learned of it! It would be disastrous!" Dallomir asserted forcefully. He truly seemed to believe in his excuse. Why did it bother him so much that he did? It did have merits. Yet the look of his eyes - cold orbs - gave everything he said now as easy to second-guess, if anyone dared.  
  
Privately, Mellinius second-guessed such words. A lot. But only very deeply in the most private recesses of his mind. Outwardly, he nodded in what he hope was a good show of daze and mounting enthusiasm. "Of course. I see what you mean, sir. But what about testing? Won't we need guinea pigs before rounding up those we might choose for the transformation?"  
  
This was a problem, as far as he was concerned. Testing was always wasteful in terms of time and manpower. Failures were extremely costly. To play with livestock in the tests would be enough to get the elders' attention. To play with human lives, it would bring them down on them like a peal of thunder. Still, despite these facts, both sorcerers remained quite serene.   
  
Dallomir took out a small bottle of brandy - from his own private reserves, no doubts - and drank deeply from it before looking back at him with a grin. "There is no need for that either. I've looked at Lei Magnus's scriptures. They are very precise, and should give us quick success. All we need is to test it on one human specimen, and all is done!"  
  
The younger mage shook his head. They were steps ahead of him. Obviously they had agreed on the plans between themselves before calling him. He knew he didn't like what that meant, but did he truly have a choice but to follow on his intended path. What else could he do? Go to the elders and tell them of all they had done. The simple fact that they had gone and taken some of Lei Magnus's devices and scriptures - Hidden Lores all! - would be nothing less than a death sentence. Compared to this certainty, the two in front of him were the lesser of two evils.  
  
"Alright. You've obviously thought this through, sir."  
  
"Indeed I have, good Mellinius. Trust me, nothing will go wrong with the plans I have concocted now."  
  
Now, he truly had those distasteful doubts about that. But he wasn't about to voice them. Instead, he asked about a secondary concern of his. "And who will be the one we will use then?"  
  
At that, Jomekin gave a grin that made his skin crawl and every joint he had hurt. He knew he wouldn't like the answer, but schooled his expression. The most powerful among them only took out a small silver bell, which he rang. Almost on cue, the doors outside the room opened, and in came two of the household guards, carrying a prisoner between them. Mellinius immediately felt the chill within himself increase.  
  
The one they brought was a girl with auburn hair, slightly tanned skin and relatively fit physique, and dressed only in undergarments. Her hands were shackled, one link in the hands of one guard, and a magical inhibitor on her brow. Despite her appearance, she looked at them all with fury in her eyes, drowning the fear she might have felt. He recognized her at once. It was the woman who had been in the group which had fought them so hard a week before, the one who had been taken by Lei Magnus's teleporting spell.  
  
"Here is our very own guinea pig." Dallomir said triumphantly. "She has strong magic, and so should be perfect for our tests. Wouldn't you say, my dear?" he gave the bound girl a grin. All he received was a glare. "I suppose I shouldn't expect you to understand how important this will be. You will become a cornerstone, and the beginning which will lead Lumeria to total victory over Elmekia!"  
  
"I swear that, if nothing else, I'll never help you or Lumeria in any way." She said slowly, and then twisted as the headband emitted a strong shock of electricity.  
  
"Ah, I see you've seen that the headband's punch is quite powerful. Don't worry, you will feel it plenty of times. Once every hour, in fact. Guards, take her away to her cell and follow my instructions." The guards immediately tugged the dazed bound sorceress away. She barely resisted it, but managed to give them all a death stare before she was out of the door. Mellinius felt sicker than he'd ever felt in his life. He turned from the closing door to Dallomir, who was still smiling.  
  
"Your instructions? Sir, what will you do to her?"  
  
"What must be done. Lei Magnus was specific: for the spell to work, the receiver mustn't have sufficient willpower to resist. So that is what we will break. By the time we are ready, she will never have the strength to resist the change."  
  
Suddenly, the room felt as colt as the top of a mountain.  
  
And he suddenly wondered if, as he had thought so surely mere moments beforehand, the two men in front of him indeed were the lesser of the evils when compared to the Elders' wrath.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"No! Absolutely not!"  
  
"Its all logical, Phil."  
  
"Even if it happens to be logical, and I admit that it sounds so, I refuse to go to the capital. Send someone else!"  
  
It was frankly the first time Loerik had ever seen Prince Philionel so distraught. Normally, he wasn't affected much by plans, or then he'd launch in one grand speech about the group doing what is right and agreeing to whatever was being said in the end. That was just the way he was, it had seemed. But right now, this was different. Not only did he staunchly refuse to follow the plan, he actually looked like a scared deer.  
  
The confusion this change created was general. Even Zashtla looked increasingly puzzled, while Marcus, Fezra and that new boy Lionel were looking in with increasing expressions of frustration. Only Hallia appeared to take it relatively in stride.  
  
"Right." she said, pushing a lock of emerald out of the way "You mind explaining WHY you wouldn't want to go, Phil? I mean, its not like this would be a dangerous place for anybody, especially for you, their-" she stopped, flushed, looked around. Fortunately none of the few patrons still around the common room were paying them any heed - perhaps in light of what had gone on before. "I mean, not for an inhabitant of Sailune."  
  
That was another problem. Although Philionel had told them about his nobility and position, it was unwise to tell of it publicly. After all, who knew what reactions - and potential trouble - would be brought in on them if it was learned the prince himself travelled amongst a band of adventurers? Better safe than sorry.  
  
Phil's large eyebrows fumbled down into an embarrassed frown, and the huge man seemed to wobble in uncertainty. Finally, he muttered something unintelligible.  
  
"What was that, Phil?" Fezra asked in a too-sweet voice "I didn't hear you."  
  
"I said...." the prince hesitated "...I said chances would be I'd meet...my betrothed." He looked at them all as they took this in silently. "And I wouldn't want to do so too quickly, I you catch my meaning."  
  
Loerik was a little stunned by the announcement - Phil was barely eighteen - but unsurprised. He had grown amongst the elves, after all. And the elves, although having magic, arts, and sophistication beyond what human had, they also had traditions more long-lasting than what could be conceived by human minds. They were so set in their old ways that they neither knew nor cared who they hurt in the process of implementing them.  
  
He knew that quite well.  
  
Zashtla, however, hadn't been born amongst the elves or amongst the human upper class, for she let out a dry chuckle, which drew all eyes to her. "So what you mean's that you got a girl off the capital waiting for you? That doesn't sound too bad."  
  
Marcus, however, was more sober about it. "Actually, it could be bad, Zasthla. Sailunean tradition is pretty strong. If Philionel is betrothed to a woman, in his particular case, his family might not want to let him go until they were wedded."  
  
"That's it." Phil agreed "And that would mean waiting for a long time, because of preparations and all of this nonsense." It felt that the prince was clearly against the entire notion. It made Loerik feel a bit closer to the royal personage.  
  
Lionel, who had remained silent ever since he had explained his idea, tapped his temple thoughtfully. "That is a bit unexpected, and I don't readily see how we could work around that. However, the fact which remains is this: this wand," and he showed a thin wand of marble and copper with a small ruby on top " can allow teleportation for a limited number of time. However, what you need even more is a way to counter very powerful magic like those that were stolen. There is a possible answer, unfortunately said to be located in sacred chambers inside the royal castle of Sailune."  
  
"Sacred chambers!" Phil muttered "You're talking about things which belonged to Sai Lune himself! The artefacts you described, they've been kept carefully guarded for nearly a millennia. Almost since the foundation of the Royal House Sailune."  
  
"But not guarded against some like...you, I might guess." Loerik said with a wink.  
  
"We'll need those artefacts, Phil." Fezra said in a voice as close to pleading as it ever had come to. "I know I've been acting like a bitch these days, but I'm telling you - we need that stuff. To stop Dallomir, and most of us, to save Berwen. I know it might land you in trouble with your family, but I'm asking you, please do it. We can't leave her with those creeps."  
  
Please. Of all the words Loerik would have thought he'd hear from Fezra's mouth, this was certainly one of the last. After all, she was a proud member of the Inverse line of sorcerers, a line known for taking what they wanted, sometimes loudly, sometimes arrogantly. Certainly never by pleading. He almost could hear the myriad of Inverse generations turning over in their coffins by the sheer shock of it. This declaration floored Hallia, Zasthla and Phil as well, while Lionel looked at their expression in slight confusion. Only Marcus didn't seem surprised, as he only spared her a sad look before regarding Phil again.  
  
He was finished. There wasn't anybody, it seemed, more right-minded or noble-minded than Phil, no matter with the justice fanaticism and silly speeches. Pleading of that sort, from someone who just DIDN'T plead, was enough to kill any resistance he had left about their plans. He sighed a sigh which seemed to come from the his ankles, and nodded.  
  
"Alright. A warrior of justice never allows another to suffer out of selfishness! I will do it!" he said readily, drawing himself up proudly, even though everyone could still feel his doubts about the matter.  
  
Fezra's shoulders sagged a bit in relief. "Thank you, Phil." Then up they came again, and Fezra Inverse was back in full swig. "Alright then! We got our work cut out for us starting tomorrow morning! Phil and Lionel are gonna go dig us some protection so we can take these bastards, while we're gonna go to Latemba near the Sailune-Lumeria border. So I think we might as well get ourselves some sleep right now." For some reason, she gave him an amused look as everyone agreed and rose to settle down for the evening.  
  
Loerik stayed and chatted with Marcus, who was a very late-sleeper and probably would take a walk before he went to bed, then went to seek his own room. When he found it and entered, he expected to find it empty. He certainly did not expect someone, and even less so that it be Hallia. What truly sent him into inner turmoil was the fact that she was dressed for sleep. He checked the number of his room. It was the right one. Still, not knowing what he should do or say, he was about to go back down and take the walk with Marcus when she spotted him in the doorway. She didn't seem surprised to see him.  
  
"Come in, Loerik! Don't stand there like some cracked statue!" she said, beckoning him inside. As if on automatism, he stepped forward and closed the door.  
  
"This...this...err....t-this is my room." he finally choked out. She nodded. Nodded! As if it was normal for her to be here!  
  
"Yup. And its mine, too!" she announced.  
  
This sent him into an embarrassed spluttering. Not that he minded the woman's company. He felt...lots of things for Hallia, although he wasn't about to force the issue on some of them yet. He certainly hadn't wanted to face them so directly, not so soon. Yet he found himself looking at her form, admiring her. Shamed at his acting, wondering what his father would think of the whole thing, he looked away. Ironically, she laughed softly as she saw him squirm.  
  
"Fezra was right - you're too sweet to do anything, you big swordsman." she winked as he looked at her in surprise. "It was Fezra's idea that we shared a room. Two beds, mind you. To put things into...perspective."  
  
Perspective? If he ever found sleep that night with knowing she was near, he was hoping he was going to kill Fezra in his sleep. And even then, he was in half a mind to go do it right now! Still, there was nothing to do but to endure it right now.  
  
"So...I take the left bed." he finally squeezed breathlessly.  
  
"Fine by me." she gave him another smile "And if worse comes to worse, don't worry. I won't hurt you."  
  
And he knew that, if only for that sentence and its implications, he was going to be having a hard time getting some sleep, What was he doing with such a band of crazed people anyway!?!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
There was a realm, which few humans had entered, except for some of the most powerful sorcerers, which appeared amongst the millennia. Sometimes an elf came, every few hundred years, but they were usually there purely by accident, or else they didn't understand exactly where they were. Elves. A powerful race of the prime material plane, which controlled the lands before the dragons came, and before the humans rose to sentience and civilization. Beings of purity and supreme arrogance all melded together, shepherding the world as best they could.  
  
Xellos had found being amongst them tedious, not to mention boring. There was no life there, there was no excitement.  
  
That was when he had noticed the emerging humans. At first only a few packs of primitive hunters, they had been taken under the elves' wings and taught the basic principles of civilization. Once they had, they adapted quickly, and well, multiply far too quickly for the elves's liking. The Mazoku Priest-General wagered that, if the War of Resurrection - as the Failed Awakening was known amongst humans - hadn't come along, the humans might well have been in serious trouble. Instead, they survived the War, and adapted as marvellously quickly as before. This time, however, the elves were diminished to mere remnants, and the dragons had largely gone into isolation, they had the lands to themselves.  
  
That's when the real fun had begun. Change, conflicts, births, deaths, always moving, always trying new things, the world of humans had emerged. Oh, not as impressive as the elven civilization had been at its peak, not quite yet. But so refreshing nonetheless! Walking through a human city was never dull, and could still be invigorating after hundreds, thousands of times. Moreover, there were plenty of negative emotions - humans were so much more violent than elves - to feed him aplenty. And many pure-hearted people to play tricks on.  
  
Yes, Xellos really liked the human world, probably because it was so flawed and tumultuous. It had brought him a sort of pleasure, he supposed. As he walked the halls of the astral castle that belonged to his mistress, Xellas Metallium, he was reminded that it had been penetrated many times by humans who knew exactly what they were doing. Easy to kill at first, but more and more challenging. Another reason to like them, as far as he was concerned.  
  
"You are pondering humans again, are you not, Xellos?"  
  
He turned and bowed to the person who commanded his powers and life. Xellas had appeared in her human shape, golden-haired and extraordinarily beautiful as humans saw things, dressed perfectly. She seemed ready to walk into a king's ball, or to carry an entire flock of male nobles to do her every whim. But that was the way she wanted to be seen. After all, Xellas liked power, and this was the appearance of a human woman who had exactly that.  
  
He bowed his head slightly along with his body. "Yes, my lady. I must admit that I was doing just that." Not like there was any use in trying to lie to her, unless one wished to see one's life shortened considerably. "They are a fascination people to watch and play with."  
  
She gave him the tiniest of smiles. "A thousand years, hundreds of human wars, you have seen the ups and downs of the Race of Mankind for so long. Don't you ever get tired of them?"  
  
He grinned his infamous grin, the one that always annoyed everyone around him except for his mistress. "Oh, never! They have never given me time to be bored. There's always a few humans daring things, always a few humans putting the world on the edge of chaos."  
  
"Humans have always swung between the Mazoku and the Ryozoku, between darkness and light. They have no focus, but seek one all their lives. No wonder they are a race of chance." she looked at him again with an amused expression. "They are perfect for you, aren't they?"  
  
"I will not deny it. They are most satisfying."  
  
Her face became colder, more inquisitive. "On the subject of humans, I trust your doings have bore fruit?"  
  
In truth, he didn't really want to broach that subject. But, seeing he had little choice in the matter, he simply continued with the same cheer as ever. Beyond the strange columns of the halls, shadows stirred, lesser mazoku probably, afraid to show themselves. "I have made contact with the group. It is rather remarquable, to feel parts of these familiar auras gathered together. Two of them, powerful sorcerers both, hold parts of Falana. The Prince of Sailune has parts of the founder of his dynasty, and the warrior...the warrior is both Gabriev with...with traces of the highest elven blood." She looked at him with increased interest.  
  
"The highest of the elven blood. Do you mean there is Prossellian noble blood in the swordsman's veins?"  
  
"His natural dexterity, endurance? It couldn't be anything else. They are, I must say, a most impressive group."  
  
"As we wanted it to be. Now, of more import is the matter of the mages who stole the Lores. Have they decided to go through with the transformation ritual?"  
  
And there was exactly the part he truly didn't care about. He didn't know why he cared if chimeric experiments were undertaken. After all, chaos often resulted, and didn't his entire race thrive on chaos? Yet, for some reason, thinking of the possibilities didn't please him like it had pleased him to sow chaos with the elves. Perhaps it was because he found natural human chaos sufficient? Or was it something else? He truly hoped not - it would only bring him trouble if it were.  
  
Still, his mistress had asked him a question, and to her if to nobody else, he was diligent in his answers. "Yes, mistress. They are going to use the procedure very soon. Within the next few weeks, most probably. They have little time to waste, considering their situation."  
  
Xellas smiled widely, showing canine teeth that didn't belong with the rest of the pleasing human face. "So, they are going to attempt to do what only Lei Magnus had ever been able to do. A millennia has taught mankind much arrogance."  
  
"They might very well succeed, with the detailed instructions they found."  
  
"Detailed instructions that we LET them find, rather. They do not know, however, that one or two elements were subtly changed in the overall formula. Which will bring us the opening we will need."  
  
Xellos was the only one who knew of Xellas' plan, or enough to piece the rest together at any rate. It was brilliantly put together, strung over the space of decades instead of years. The other Mazoku Lords - especially Dolphin and Gaav - were too shortsighted, and their schemes had always failed because they had tried to do too much too quickly. It would not be so here.  
  
And finally, the pieces were starting to come together. The Sword of Light had reappeared, and given added power by the elven blood, which ran through its newest owner. Humans with power nearing Lei Magnus and Falana of the Seven Winds had risen again. All was poised on a humanity which had regained much of the power of the old days, yet had none of the wariness and care of those who had fought Xellos' people nearly one millennia ago.  
  
Furthermore, they no longer had the aid of the Dragons and the Elves. Where mankind had prospered and claimed most of the lands, the elves and dragons had gone into isolation, with few seen outside Mipross or the Katato Mountain Range. There would be no other Triad Army. Mankind was alone. However, certain events had to happen before the Mazoku could try again to control the material plane.  
  
"This is only the first step, Xellos." Xellas told him "Only the opening moves against the humans. We will stay in the shadows for many years yet. Watching, gauging. And, in the case of this little experiment, subtly interfering."  
  
"Indeed, Mistress. I am excited at the prospect."  
  
"As we should all be, Xellos. As we should all be!"  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Prossel : Before the War of Resurrection, Prossel was the most powerful of all the Ancient Kingdoms. It had the greatest mages, the most advanced culture, and the largest army, and dominated the entire continent. The War, however, would take a heavy toll on it, as the Mazoku Hordes would savagely attack it in order to decrease its strength. Despite all of this, the realm was instrumental in creating the Triad Army that so successfully held back the Mazoku for so many years. However, the nearly forty years of hardship would destroy most of its people, so that only a fraction remained of the great realm when all was over. This fraction united under a new monarchy, and founded a new Kingdom - Mipross. 


	9. Chapter Eight

"Many people quickly forget the times of kings which are overshadowed by the works of those who follow them. Worse so, some forget said kings even when they still remain alive. I am the first to admit that the rule of Philionel de Sailune has been nothing but beneficial for our realm. With him, we entered a time of unprecedented peace and prosperity, and he should be saluted for doing such a thing.  
  
However, I ask you, who read these pages: should we condemn those who had made less popular decision because they loved our proud Kingdom of Sailune as much as our present, beloved Crown Prince?"  
  
Sarak Gengkar, Sailune: Its Kings and its People   
  
Chapter Eight  
  
  
Another branch whipped across Marcus' face, and the sorcerer growled and pushed it back. He had never been a shirker or someone really inclined to complaining - he prided himself on getting through things steadily, without letting emotions such as discomfort, embarrassment and irritation get the better of him. However, travelling in a swampy part of a forest, with insects biting and buzzing all around, trudging through slimy terrain, all that didn't help his humor. When damp nights, cold food and the beginning of what could frightfully be a cold in his nose, his disposition quickly crossed from tired to downright sullen. Still, he continued to keep this to himself, as did all of companions.  
  
Except one.  
  
"Freaky, buzzy, bity, flimsy little flies everywhere! I could be having a good time at a cozy inn back in Sailune, having myself a sumptuous meal and a room with a soft, DRY bed, but where am I? I'm here on the worse rescue operation that I've ever seen, in the forest in the failing light, soggy, tired to the bone..."  
  
The red-haired sorcerer sighed. Fezra had been muttering louder and louder in the last two days - not totally for no cause. He had sympathy for her, shared the feelings she had about her present situation. But the thing was, her griping was only making it all not only harder to bear, but undoubtedly more dangerous.  
  
Nerves were on edge, fraying. And as she was the one making the most noise by far, she was the designated outlet when someone needed to unload.  
  
In this case, it was Zashtla who blew first, the muscular swordswoman whirling on the smaller sorceress in a groan of leather and the slap of a sheathed blade. "What does it take for you to understand QUIET?!?" she hissed "Don't you realize that we're still near the front lines! I for one don't want to have to fight a scouting force because you can't keep your mouth shut!"  
  
"What I do with my mouth, Zashtla," Fezra said swiftly, batting a fly away "Is my own business. And as for patrols, we evaded the two who saw us."  
  
"Or rather HEARD us, thanks to you!"  
  
"I think that your discussion isn't helping." Marcus finally interjected, on edge himself. "If someone WAS around, he'd have heard us a mile off by now! Now just go on walking before you bring who and whatever is in this Gods-forsaken woods to us."  
  
He had made a mistake, he could see. He had learned long ago that the worst thing a man could do was rant in the middle of another rant going on between two women. He had seen that, in many case, the many who interrupted became the target for a concerted effort of the total wrath stored in both women. As they turned two burning pairs of eyes in his direction, he wondered if the voyage in the swampy forest hadn't addled his wits a bit badly to make him forget such a fact.  
  
The attack, however, was cut off by another male voice that cut through the tension like a knife with the simple word "Quiet."  
  
Normally Loerik Gabriev didn't have that kind of power in the group. In fact, it was often Fezra, Hallia, or he who took the decisions and controlled the companions, depending on the circumstances and with different means. However, Loerik was a veteran mercenary and an extremely formidable swordsman. When a fighter of that experience told his group to be quiet so close to battle lines, one listened very carefully.  
  
They immediately did so, moving closer to the swordsman, who stood as if poised on the brink of either attacking or fleeing, his face unreadable in the failing light.  
  
"Loerik, what is the-" Hallia began.  
  
"Hush! Listen!" he whispered.  
  
Marcus did. At first he heard nothing but the wet noises of a swamp and the buzz of mosquitoes. And then, his ears picked up something, at the edge of his hearing. Straining, he heard a sort of soft rumbling, and what appeared to be the neighing of a horse. It was faint, but then Loerik had proven himself a man of perfect hearing and vision.  
  
Zasthla tsked with her thin lips. "A moving body. A heavy one. Certainly not a caravan in these parts."  
  
Fezra nodded. "No merchant worth his salt would bring a caravan anywhere near these parts with the war close by."  
  
"A military force?" Hallia said.  
  
"I'd bet it's just that." Zasthla muttered "Moving south, so its either a Lumerian force returning, or an Elmekian force penetrating."  
  
"Neither. The sound's too haphazard to be a regular army unit, but neater than what a militia would be. My money's on a mercenary force...about two to three hundred strong."  
  
That wasn't good news. Mercenaries were less disciplined than regular soldiers and lacked the weaponry of heavy-mounted knights, but they had the savage experience of people who could fight more than their share. Magic could deter them, but even it might not really stop them if they ever went for blood. From the tightening in the poise of his companions, he saw that they all arrived at the same conclusion.  
  
"That's it." Loerik said. "We can't risk attracting them to us. Besides, the light's really staring to fade fast. I say we find a drier spot to sleep and set up a watch to make sure we don't get any nasty surprises - like a raid.  
  
No one was about to argue with that kind of argument, not even Fezra objected. Turning a bit parallel to the moving mercenary force, they eventually found a place where the ground wasn't all soggy, and where the bugs didn't sting too much.  
  
"Almost an inn, if one disregards the scenery." he muttered, letting his pack go down from his shoulders. Gods, but he was so very tired! The damp had seemingly entered every fibre in his clothes, and he knew that there was no hope of a fire that night, nor the night after that. He longed to be out of this danger zone.  
  
The others huddled nearby; Loerik and Hallia close as usual. Although the two could definitely couldn't be called a couple - yet - the two had seemingly grown closer ever since Fezra had plotted to force the swordsman to sleep in the same room at the inns they stayed. A disturbing concept to the tall man, who had seemingly been raised in the stiff and conservative ways of the elves. It had been an ocean of amusement for all involved, and Marcus had never missed a single opportunity to embarrass his muscular friend further. Alas, even those amusing thoughts couldn't keep the damp out of him.  
  
"How long are we going to keep on this?" he groaned. "Cold meals, damp clothes, moods going down. I'm not a pessimist, but we can't keep up forever."  
  
Loerik nodded. "My guess is we got two more days of forest then, and one more day outside. Then we should be clear of the front. According to a map I saw, there's a small village just one more day off. Its in a very remote region, so it should still be standing."  
  
Marcus sneezed loudly while Hallia sighed. "I intended to return to my country one day. I never thought I'd have to sneak into it."  
  
"Just be glad you get to see it before there's no country left for you." She looked back at them steadily in the gloom when they stared at her. "Don't look at me this way. It's harsh, but it's the truth. The kingdom's troops are exhausted. Its only a matter of time before the empire wins."  
  
No one could say anything to that. Hallia swallowed, but kept her composure. Even Loerik didn't offer comfort, for it would only have been a lie. They all knew that victory would one day belong to the imperial army. Weren't they insuring that, after a fashion?  
  
"Well, we might as well get a bit of sleep. Damp or not, I'm bushed." Fezra said, and at once she rummaged through her pack, unrolling her blankets. After a beat, the others followed suit, and Marcus saw Loerik put a gentle hand on Hallia's shoulder. Wordless sympathy. Right now, that was the best he could give. Maybe there was hope for the lunkhead after all!  
  
He rolled himself into his blankets, shivering. Damn it was cold. He'd be lucky if he didn't catch something serious before the dreadful ordeal was through. It was starting to rile his sensibilities.  
  
Grumbling, he wondered what Lionel, Phil and Narie were doing right at that moment. Probably feasting at the king's table in Sailune's Royal Castle.  
  
Some people just didn't know their luck!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"I wonder how the others are doing right now."  
  
Probably having far more fun then I am right now, Philionel decided in his most grumpy mental voice. A good thing he didn't voice that out loud - not only was this certainly untrue, it wasn't the way a warrior of justice would be. One who followed such a way was always dignified, and didn't whine about such things like an overbearing father and the frightening prospect of marrying someone he neither knew not cared for.  
  
Alright, so he was whining. But at least he wasn't showing it. Or was he?  
  
Lionel answered the question Narie had idly asked in his methodical, patient way he had. "Probably having a far worse time than we did. We crossed this country by roads, and slept in inns. Had hot meals instead of cold one. And we're walking towards one of the greatest cities in the world, while they are probably dodging patrols left and right."  
  
"You have a way of saying things, sir." she said, suddenly meek, idleness gone. Although he was ahead of them both, he could feel the apprentice's frown. She had acted distant and far too proper during their journey.  
  
"I suppose I do at that. " he answered hesitantly. His tone then grew strong again. "And if our good Prince here could wipe the bitter mien off his expression, perhaps he could tell us if we are nearing our destination?"  
  
Phil barely checked a double take. It seems his interior whining was showing after all. So much for looking like a proud defender of justice today.  
  
"We're very near." he said at last "Up this hill and then we'll see The City of White Magic in all of its glory." He even managed to put some pride in that sentence.  
  
Still, when they went up the hill, he couldn't even feel flattered by the frank admiration in Narie's gasp and in Lionel's humming.  
  
"I've never seen a city like that before. Its...huge! And it's so beautiful! It makes even Lumeris look small." Narie exclaimed. Lionel nodded empathically, admiring the architecture he saw in the evening.  
  
"Its indeed large. Long have I heard of the proud capital of Sailune, its tall walls, its magic and its temples." The one who had the distinct and rare honour to be the apprentice to one of the Five Wisemen of the Age gave a groan of appreciation. "This sight, however, is even better than I had imagined. It rivals Sairaag itself in its majesty!"  
  
Normally the prince accepted the words as they were. After all, even living most of his days inside and around its walls, he saw the greatness of what would one day be HIS capital. The great walls forming a barrier against magic, rendering them impregnable to normal siege weapons. The lights winking increasingly as night started to overtake the day and the people retired to tavern and hearth with friends or loved ones. It was a safe city, a prosperous one, and he was proud of it.  
  
But the only thing he felt right now was that he had a wife he was to meet soon.   
  
Damn tradition! Damn his father! And damn whoever that girl was, for that matter. "Come." he sighed "They'll close the gates within the hour. We must make haste."  
  
They did, briskly walking the last miles swiftly. They passed the gates as inconspicuously as possible, Phil hiding most of his face under the hood of his cloak, and walked the wide, clean paved street leading to the castle. His companions sometimes looked at a stall or a piece of architecture, and he was sure they found his lack of interest a bit rude and irritating. Well, as far as he was concerned, he had a right to be rude and irritated.  
  
They eventually walked to the great, ancient gate leading to the royal castle, and were at once challenged by a pair of guards, who expertly grasped spears and pointed them at chest level. "Stop, and in the name of Sailune and King Fedoniel, present your name to us, or turn back!"  
  
Getting past the elite royal guards, trained to handle anything from monsters to sorcerers, would be extremely tricky to anyone else, and dangerous to those with the wrong set of intentions. For him, however, it was a stunningly simple task. He swept back his hood, revealing his face, knowing it was recognizable by the torches held on the gate.  
  
"Peace, my friends." he said "I am Crown Prince Philionel, and these are my guests. We are on our way to meet the King." The guards were on their knees almost before he had finished speaking, and he almost tore at his hair at this. "Please, please! You should know I hate this by now. One of you please go alert my father that his son has come home."  
  
One of them went, and he turned to his companions. "Come with me. I extend my hospitality to you. In fact, I want you with me." he didn't find it in his heart to tell them why it was so important.  
  
His father never met them outside the castle - of course not! It wouldn't be proper! - But his brother Christopher did, his young, well-dressed person shaking hands with him warmly before he had even entered the castle proper.  
  
Once the brotherly effusions had passed, however, he warned Phil. "Be careful. Father is rather...miffed...at your latest escapade."  
  
"Father has always been miffed about something I did, it seems." he answered, but his steps were slower as he made his way to the banquet hall, where he heard chatter and music drifting from minstrels, courtiers and nobles as they feasted with the King.  
  
Silence came as the doors opened and all saw who was present. He could feel Lionel stiffen and Narie squirm behind him as all attention fixed on them. Murmurs ran through the vast hall as many of the nobles and sycophants recognized their vanished prince. Others gave calculating or surprised looks to the two behind him. He cared not for them. All he cared about were the people seated at the raised, most ornate table.  
  
His father was there, giving Phil a look, which was a pleasant facade to an icy interior. But that was to be expected. After all, hadn't he gone off on what the older man would see as a deluded mission, even while tradition demanded he stayed? He certainly had personal cause to be angry. However, it had been a long time since Phil had stopped caring much about his father's opinions of him.  
  
However, the person to his right, where Phil himself should have sat, captured all of his attention. Dressed in an expansive blue gown trimmed with silver and wearing more jewels than most common folk ever saw in a lifetime, she had an angular face and a pointed nose, which, somehow, gave her a very classical beauty. She wasn't displeasing to look at all. He locked his gaze with hers from afar as the silence lengthened. A gaze she broke with a faint smirk that managed to make him feel more humiliated than any tirade.  
  
He knew that this was Valmatia Della Sar Elmekun, niece of the Emperor of Elmekia, and his future wife. He didn't have time to sift through his feelings or the impressions she gave him, however, as his father rose in the silence.  
  
"Philionel my son. I am glad to see that you are safe." The eyes spoke of a different story. Certainly, he was probably relieved to know his son was safe - he knew his father wasn't devoid of feelings - but what spoke more loudly was the disappointment and the anger he saw beneath the surface.  
  
"I am glad to be here, father. Sailune's lights are always a pleasant sight for my travel-weary eyes." A tacit way to acknowledge his pride over his travelling the countryside, and a subtle slight towards his father."  
  
"Certainly. I am certain that the company of the common folk makes the fine life of a prince quite remarquable." The king subtly jibed back, then he motioned to a chair next to Valmatia. "Please, come and sit with us. I am certain you would apologize to Princess Valmatia for not being able to greet her at our arrival."  
  
"Of course. However, I would like my two companions to dine beside me tonight. They have good standing, and soothe my feelings."  
  
"That is easily arranged!" the king gave another frosted pleasant smile and snapped his finger. Chairs were whisked even as they walked to the table and talking and music hesitantly resumed. Lionel nudged him, and he nodded. He would have to talk to his father about the items stored in the sacred vaults. He would also have to apologize to his future bride. Many things which he didn't relish, and would put off for now. Tonight, despite his anxiety and doubts, he would enjoy being home.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Kalarus spat the brew he had been drinking. The best ale in the house? The damn thing has been watered down - recently at that. That didn't improve his already foul move. He rose from his seat at the bar, and swiftly, grasped the tavern wench who'd served him. She gave a yelp of fright and pain at the sudden, painful pull. He cared not. Why, after all, should he care about a puny woman's whimpers?  
  
"You gave me some bad ale, wench. I don't like that very much, I tell ya." he griped her arm more tightly "Might as well know, I'm thinkin' you did that on purpose cuz I'm an Elmekian merc and all. Isn't that the pothole o' things?"  
  
"Please...I gave...you...our best...like you said." she gasped. The effrontery! Lying to his face like that! A shrew, nothing more. His anger mounted, cracking the tenuous control he had over it. He shifted his grasp to her neck, forcing her to her knees, the heads upward. He heard many other voices protesting, some angrily, some fearfully. He ignored them as he ignored the girl's whimpers. They were all beneath him, she most of all. With his fingers, he forced her mouth open, and lifted the pint of horrid ale he'd been given.  
  
"Your best, is it? Not true here, I tell ya. But don't take m'word for it. Taste it yerself." he said, and poured the ale into her mouth.  
  
He was doing it too quickly, he knew. Even if she'd been inclined to play along, she wouldn't have been able to take such swallows as to keep up with the flow. The fact that she wasn't feeling like playing the game only made matters worse. She choked almost immediately, the drink choking her throat, getting into her nose. Her hands grasped the arm holding her face in place with desperate energy, scratching him, beating him, in a flurry. It didn't stop him - his strength was far superior. He smiled down at her?  
  
"Is that the best ale? Is it? IS IT, WENCH?!?" he growled, ignoring her gurgling pleas. His fun - for watching the woman struggle was quite an entertainment - was however cut short, as a blade clumsily slapped the pint out of his hand. His anger mounted anew at the interruption, and he turned to face a youth levelling a sword at her with basic expertise. He smirked darkly. "What are ye, pup? Some kind of hero wannabe?" he chuckled.  
  
"I think you've done 'nought here. Now just let her go. You've had your fun." the young lad said, face set in stubborn defiance. Other patrons began edging away from the scene, including a very frightened bartender.  
  
Kalarus grinned, his scarred face stretching in an amused manner. With swift movement, he slammed the gurgling wench into the thick table wood - she slumped like a doll on the floor, liquid flowing from her retching mouth. "There," he told the youth, rising. "Ye've got yer wish. Now how's about I get a little more fun? From ye, that is..." his hand grasped the hilt of his blade, and drew it before the pup could react.  
  
"Have at you!" the young man said, his blade flashing upward for a strike. To most, it would have been a strong technique. But to Kalarus, it was full of holes. He caught the blade with his own at just the right angle, turning back upward and away from him, opening his adversary's body wide.  
  
His masterfully crafted and balanced blade cut the youth's swordarm in two, slicing it cleanly, right below the elbow. Such was the shock of it the young pup only opened his guard further, his eyes widening as he stared at the bleeding stump where a forearm has been a mere moment before. He was almost pitiful to look at. Almost. He had looked for the fight, however. He had reaped his reward.  
  
It took only one more strong, expert swipe to separate head from body. Nodding, satisfied, he turned an inviting gaze to the other patrons and maids. "Anyone want to play the hero? Take down the villain! C'mon, don't yet be gettin', cold feet, I tell ya." Still no one answered. All either looked at the unmoving serving wench or at the decapitated body. Feh. Farmers and shopkeepers. People who knew nothing of combat.  
  
"Too bad. Well, I'll be expectin' payment for the bad ale. Anyone want to share with me?" Silver, copper and even two gold pieces spilled out from trembling hands. He grinned, scooping up the gold and silver, not bothering with the silver. "Much satisfied. The matter's closed and all. Have a nice day." He nonchalantly exited the tavern, right into the main street and walked off, ignoring the following commotion inside.   
  
He had done what he wanted - scouting the town to see if it was worth raiding for the mercenaries he had managed to bring under his control since the day he had broken from his former band with a few trusted people. Nearly two hundred fierce fighters were now under his command, waiting to pillage where he willed, to kill where he willed. It brought him much satisfaction. Only one thing would bring him more fulfillment...no, he refused to think about that now.  
  
The small town was hardly worth the time, he decided. Just a few dozen houses clumped together around a market place in the middle of ordinary-looking fields. A farmer's place. No real wealth like wine or silk or gemstones. Perhaps they could just mount a small raid to steal food, but other than that.  
  
"Ceipheed, its so GOOD to be in a town again!"  
  
He stopped, began turning. He knew that voice...  
  
"Yeah, it sure beats the roads. I think we're entitled to using some of the gold we have to get ourselves a place to bathe, a place to eat and then a place to sleep, in that order!"  
  
That voice too! He darted to the side as he turned, hiding in an alley, so that they passed not far from him without noticing him. It was those two! That damn stubborn woman Zastla, with two following in sorcerer's garments whom he didn't know. Then that priestess, the one who had attempted to attack him, disrupting his fun that night! And following right after her, in grimy armour but quite recognizable.  
  
His sword was in his hand, and his hate and shame made him step forward towards the one who had humiliated him months before. Loerik! That damn lucky, arrogant PUP Loerik Gabriev was here, within his grasp! Reason, however, quickly reasserted itself. He was here, but not alone. And although he seemed tired somewhat, he knew his chances in a confrontation were nonexistent. He might be able to kill Gabriev if he took him by surprise, but he was certain the combined forces of the others would fell him.  
  
And what was killing the sole man who had ever humiliated him so if he couldn't enjoy the feeling? No, he knew he had to contain his anger, at least for now. Using years of mercenary life, he decided to follow them, eventually moving just close enough to hear a part of their conversation.  
  
"...wouldn't mind to get my teeth on some spiced beef with good ale myself." The hated swordsman was saying to the female of the two sorcerers, who reached up and patted him.  
  
"You're speaking my language!" she exclaimed.  
  
"And mine!" the male sorcerer added, pushing a lock of red hair out his eyes. "We made good time. I think we can rest two days here at least before starting off again. We can use the rest."  
  
He smiled. Two days meant two nights. He decided he would organize a major raid after all... He returned to the present as the priestess turned her head in a direction...the tavern where he had just had some fun!!  
  
"What's going on there?" she asked, and walked in that direction, the others following her. He decided not to follow. They would certainly ask questions. Zashtla and Loerik would recognize the work of a master swordsman. They would soon deduce his identity. And he would be outnumbered in a fight. After a last, hate-filled look at his rival and blood enemy, he walked back, towards the edge of the village, keeping to the shade of the buildings and then the trees.  
  
Gabriev was there! His heart was filled with fierce anticipation. At last he would be able to regain his supremacy, to definitely quell the doubts within his soul! He would attack the town, use his men to draw off his friends, and then, his blood would be on his blade.  
  
And he knew just how to circumvent the use of Loerik's accursed magical blade. A sure way!  
  
He laughed as he walked now, out of town, into the fields. Life always had had a way of making things work out for him. Now he would prove that his defeat was fluke, and that no young pup could contest his supremacy in swordsmanship no matter how grand the name said youth wore.  
  
And if he won, he could have a trophy worth more than a mountain of riches: the renowned, legendary Sword of Light!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Ferlin Gredon Sar Elmekun the Second, Emperor of aggressive and powerful Elmekia, smiled benevolently at the man in front of him as he nudged a chess piece to the position he wanted. "Truly, ambassador, there is no need for concern. This simply the end of a three-centuries old territorial dispute. The empire does not wish to invade Zefielia."  
  
The ambassador, a burly, thick-boned diplomat of over fifty winters, would not be assuaged so easily. "There have been talks in the Queen's court that there is extensive military build-up in your northern regions, some of them quite close to our borders. There is concern that such build-up might decide to use some of our territories as an - exercise point."  
  
The emperor laughed out loud. "Ah, the things fops and courtiers would invent to interest the ears of the powerful." he chuckled. "Tell Queen Weada that she has my sympathy. I must endure such fools from time to time."  
  
"Whether they are made by fools or not, you cannot deny the fact that over five thousand recruits are now arming close to our borders." the ambassador interjected, moving a rook.  
  
The man who had worn the imperial medallion for over a decade looked at the chess game with intensity, although he'd already seen a fatal mistake his opponent has made - never be too hasty, always look for options a reversals. That was what had made him the winner in games and in the war, which was now waging far south of his capital. His charisma, added to that patience, made him an unstoppable force, and he knew it well.  
  
"A necessary evil, I'm afraid." he said in what he knew was a perfectly saddened voice "The war rages on still. Although my troops now have the definite upper hand, I must protect my reserves in case the Lumerian Army should suddenly become more dangerous than it is right now.  
  
"Which brings us to another question the Queen would want answered. Are the territorial rights clear? The imperial clerks have been less than helpful on the subject, and I have been denied access to the scrolls verifying the claims long ago."  
  
A well-crafted, slightly indulgent smile, followed by a slight sigh. "An oversight, nothing more. If you so wish, I will have the documents sent to you for your examination."  
  
"It would be an honour if you did, Highness."  
  
The emperor nudged a black knight in front of the white king. "Checkmate, ambassador. A good game." he rose from his seat. "However, you will have to excuse me, for I most meet with certain advisors about matters of state."  
  
The Zefielian ambassador accepted the polite dismissal with good grace - as Ferlin had known he would. Within moments he was gone from the emperor's private game room to the castle's ambassadorial wings. The emperor, however, simply stayed where he was. As soon as the great doors had closed behind the burly man, he turned his head to a luxurious tapestry representing knights battling dragons. "I trust you've heard everything, my brother?" he mused.  
  
The tapestry parted in the middle, revealing an alcove from which Salemir, the Duke of the Westlands and his brother's most trusted advisor, had listened to everything. "I did." he said evenly "It sounded like a knight waving his sword and shouting battlecries in the dark."  
  
The emperor paced a little, although he didn't feel any particular stress. What his brother said was true. The Queendom of Zefielia, despite its highly-trained - though small - army and its feared battle sorcerers, was in no shape to hope to sustain a long conflict of any kind, that particular realm still regrouping and recuperating from a financial crisis that Ferlin had subtly aided in worsening - his first unofficial action as Emperor. Although Elmekia wouldn't be able, to the contrary of what some feared, to invade the queendom, nor could it attack, forcing a status quo that had to be driving Weada mad.  
  
The only way they could stage assault would be with Sailune's aid both militarily and financially. But he had taken care of that by giving old Fedoniel a very interesting bargain for his son's marriage.  
  
"You're absolutely right." he said at last, stopping his pacing to stare at the paintings hung on the far wall. "However, we can't let ourselves become careless. Have half of the recruit remain on the Zefielian borders. Just in case Queen Weada has some - queer ideas."  
  
Salemir nodded, then his face lost much of its blandness. "I heard that my daughter was ill-received by the Sailunean nobility." he intoned stiffly. There was some anger in his voice, but also some resignation. Ferlin had to admit that he sympathized. None of his four children had even half the intellect and strength Valamatia possessed. Perhaps the fifth would...  
  
He shook his head. No time to think on that. "Her husband is an oaf, but the nobility likes her. Besides it all, the King treats her as his own. I have no worries she will manage this situation just fine. My present concern is the war. How long before we finally take Lumeris?"  
  
It was clear his brother wanted to talk more about Sailune, but he wisely kept quiet about it. Instead he returned himself to a stiff, dependable mien. "From the reports, I'd say three weeks, a month at most. Their defences are crumbling. The forts protecting the capital are almost all taken or destroyed, they are short on money and manpower, and the people themselves are demoralized. It will not be long now."  
  
"Excellent." he clapped his hands, once, loudly "Excellent. Finally the empire will once again be whole as it was meant to be!" He couldn't keep a slight choke on his voice. This had been the goal set by his grandfather, who had failed due to Sailune interfering, carried over by his father, who hadn't the strength to fulfill it, to him. He was momentarily overcome by emotion. "With Sailune unwilling to throw its weight against us, the other nations will have no choice but to accept our annexation, whether they like it or not. Even Zefielia."  
  
"We will have to maintain a large army at key points in the conquered lands. It will cost us much gold and resources." his brother warned. The emperor laughed, raking a hand through hair that was greying.  
  
"My dear brother. Once we have Lumeria, the army will have the resources it needs." he assured him. There was a knock on the wooden doors, and both men turned at the sound. "Enter." he commanded.  
  
At once the door opened a crack, enough for a man to enter. Dressed in halfplate, with a red and brown cape, his stature and poise showed him as one of the emperor's highly trained personal guard. The muscular, hard-faced man bowed deeply.  
  
"My Emperor, Lord Salemir. Forgive the impertinence of my appearing in your private moments, but a message has come for Lord Salemir, sealed in blue wax."  
  
Salemir and Ferlin looked at each other. Blue wax meant matters of great urgency. It wasn't something one sent to someone as important and influential as the Duke of the Westlands without cause. "Give it to me at once, soldier. You have done well." the younger of the two Elmekuns said, extending his hand. The elite guard gave the letter, bowed to Ferlin and to Salemir, and left as precisely as a clock.  
  
Neither liked surprises, and this, he felt, would probably be very displeasing to know. Still, he almost started pacing out of sheer impatience as his brother broke the seal and read the letter with eyes, which darkened progressively.  
  
"Well?" he asked at last, not caring if he showed his mood.  
  
Salemir's frown did not leave him as he handed him the letter. "Its from an unexpected source, but...I think its reliable. It appears some Lumerians are meddling with dangerous magic from the War of Resurrection."  
  
"Hidden Lores?"  
  
"Those very items, it would seem."  
  
Ferlin read the parchment, squinting at some of the words, not having his brother's reading abilities. At last he understood it all, however, and a grim smile crossed his lips. "Well...my brother, I think we'll have to do something about the Lumerians' little plot, won't we?"  
  
"Indeed. And I already know how to handle it."  
  
"I never doubted it, Salemir."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Loerik Gabriev let himself relax despite the stirring feelings in his guts. His intuition told him that there was trouble close at hand - feeling shared by Fezra and especially Zashtla, who was even more travelled than him - but his body demanded that he took his rest while he could. As he had learned to trust his instincts, he also knew that one should always heed the needs of the body. So he settled back on his bed, armour removed but close at hand, and compromised by thinking about the situation instead of moving.  
  
It was pleasant to be in a town at last. Not an important target, probably not in the path of the invasion forces, the people there could expect nothing worse than a change of rulers. Although some who lived in the larger cities would find such reasoning treasonous, the swordsman had learned the truth long ago: the rulers lived far away from small villages, and so the people had no direct reason to feel an overwhelming sense of patriotism. They just went where the flows of fate took them. It gave the village a calm outlook despite fighting the heavy fighting between armies only days away.   
  
But there was a problem even in this calm feel. The killing they had seen, the casual way it had been done, and the description of the man, all fitted together to give a picture of someone he had never liked at all, and whom he never wanted to meet ever again. He supposed there was a bit of fear in that need to stay away from one such a Kalarus. The man was, after all, a swordsman on par with Loerik himself. But it went deeper than that. In a way Kalarus personified all the bad choices he had made, all the things he had blinded himself to during his hollow years of mercenary work. He didn't want to face his old life just yet.  
  
Of course, as Marcus had pointed out, it could always have been another skilled swordsman with a sick mind. But he didn't believe it. The way that kid had been cut up, the neat wounds, the precision of it. The joy of taking a life which he'd felt from the wounds. No. He hated it, but he couldn't hide from his damn intuition: it was Kalarus.  
  
A man he had humiliated.  
  
A man who didn't take to humiliation well.  
  
A man who had never seemed stable to him.  
  
A knock on the door mercifully brought him out of the disturbed train of thought he had found himself delving into. He raised himself on his elbows. "Come on in, I'm not sleeping or naked." he said, and then smirked at his own quip. Fezra was starting to really rub off on him.  
  
The door opened, and Hallia stepped into the room slowly. He had half-expected it to be her - part of him, a bigger part then he'd overtly admit, had actually HOPED for her to show. As the days passed, as their talks grew in length and depth, he'd seen that this woman was, in many ways, much like him. Strong outwardly, doubting and confused inwardly, she had lost her mother to a plague and had given up the hope of ever seeing her father and brother alive after all her healing on the battlefields. He, on the other hand, still knew his family was alive and well, but perhaps forever out of his reach. He felt a connection with her that he never thought he'd have.  
  
It exulted him. And it frightened him far more than any battle.  
  
"Hello." she said awkwardly, her hands folded over her cleaned-up priestess garments. "I hope I'm not disturbing."  
  
"NO!" he said. Too loud. She blinked, and he moderated his voice so he'd look less like a total idiot. "There's no problem. I was just resting a bit from our ordeal in that boggy forest." Ceipheed and all of the Dragon-Kings, his voice sounded so stifled! It had been this way ever since he had spent the night in the same room as she - a ploy offered by Fezra, of course!  
  
Or perhaps it wasn't having spent the night nearby which scared him so much. Maybe it was something his mind had discovered that night, something which had grown in the days since then.  
  
She took a step to the left, a step to the right, took a deep breath. She then opened her mouth to say something, and then seemed to think better of it and closed it. She fidgeted like this for a few moments before he decided to put a stop to it, for it was starting to worsen his nervousness.  
  
"Its not the same here, is it?" he said at last. She stopped her movements and looked at him. He decided to blurt it all out. "In the forest, with the others, with all the discomfort, I could manage to act like nothing happened. But here..." he trailed off. His head bowed, but looked up sharply as she responded.  
  
"Yes...yes I...I feel it too. You know, I thought that it would be fun, to get you to sleep in my room. You were so uptight about it, it was cute!" she grinned a moment as his face flushed in remembered embarrassment. It faded away quickly, however. "I...it didn't work the way I wanted, I didn't find it funny like I thought, and I just...I don't know. I don't know what I mean!" she threw her hands up into the air.  
  
"That makes two of us."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't know how I feel either." he paused "But, as twisted as it is, its a good feeling." he rose "When I'm alone, with you...I feel...special. I feel...so good."  
  
"Yes," she whispered, her eyes misting for a moment. "I feel the same way. I feel this longing. Its not...I don't know what to do with it. Priestess training didn't help us settle these things much."  
  
"Hallia...do you...do you feel." he looked for words to say, adequate words, and found that he had risen and taken few steps towards her, that she had stepped towards him, and that he was on the verge of something. Something he'd never really experienced, something his life hadn't made him ready for.  
  
But before either could walk the final step towards this experience, fate intervened as brutally as ever. Bells sounded frantically though the Town Square, and voices shouting in rising panic were heard, incoherent from above. The moment broken, Loerik went and flung the windows to his room open. He knew that signal. He looked beyond the town, squinted his eyes. And his elven blood allowed him to see what he wanted to see.   
  
He went to his armour and started to put it on. "Help me Hallia, we only have a minute or two!" he said  
  
She went to his side, her face now showing nothing of the turmoil, which had racked it instants before. "Is this what I fear it is?"  
  
"You bet." he answered grimly. "Its a full-blown raid."  
  
In moments his armour was on, the Sword of light buckled on and drawn, he raced down the steps, right into three men who happened to be raiders.  
  
He took advantage of the fact the three hadn't been prepared, and lunged at the nearest fighter, dealing him a crippling belly wound before meeting the onslaught of the other two. A small beam hit one of the raiders, who slumped down, unconscious or dead. Alone, the third was child's play, and Hallia and he together defeated him easily. Nodding at Hallia, he hefted his ancient blade and ran with her into the town square.  
  
A square that had been peaceful but was now little more than a battlefield. Mercenaries armed with swords and lances met a rag-tag people with hoes, sticks, scythes and pitchforks. The rag-tag defenders wore no armour, and obviously had less skill for battles. Although they outnumbered the raiders, there were many civilians moaning or still on the ground, and only a handful of the enemy.  
  
A boom occurred, followed by a second, and two clumps of raiders were shattered, flying into the air, right in the midst of the defenders they were fighting. Loerik saw Marcus and Fezra, working back to back, chanting. Just a little farther, Zasthlas was giving two others quite a fight, and two already lay at her feet. He grinned. The battle wasn't lost just yet. He stepped in to take part in it.  
  
"I've been waiting for a like that one, Gabriev, I tell ya." a frighteningly familiar voice said in a tone, which made the icy feel of his gut thicken. He turned, his sword raised for defensive action. He already knew whom he'd face.  
  
Kalarus smiled at his, his own sword at the ready, his eyes twinkling with triumph. "Finally, Gabriev, we can settle the score." the smile became more feral. "And I'll prove no pup can defeat Kalarus!"  
  
________________________  
  
Falana of the Five Winds: The greatest sorceress who ever lived, whose only equal was Lei Magnus himself. Legends say that she was Magnus's lover, but fled his evil and joined the rising Triad Army, forming the First Knights with such as Oerlus the Silent, Gabriev and Sai Lune. She found true love with the elderly Oerlus, and following the war the two set about founding the first of the Magic Guilds. They had many children, the first of which, a daughter named Zefia, founded the Queendom of Zefielia.  
  
The Inverses: A family in which magic runs very strongly, the Inverses are often seen as very intelligent but reckless, many of them also possessing a streak of greed. Supposed to have been descended from Dast the Contradictory, last child of Falana and Oerlus, many heroes have nonetheless risen through the centuries, although all of them were reported to be rather destructive heroes. 


	10. Chapter Nine

"Today, on this ground, we will erect a new town. Let Ceipheed look upon it and be glad, for it will be part of humanity's rebirth on this world. Let the sorrows of war wash away from you, and all together gather in the hopes of a dream - that of a peaceful future."  
  
- Sai Lune, speaking to the War of Resurrection's survivors at the place where Sailune would soon stand, exactly one year after the war ended.  
  
"Fearless? Are you crazy? There's no one more scared than I am in a fight. That's why I could defeat Zannafar - I know how to fear. He did not."  
  
- Kerlig Gabriev, the 'Swordsman of Light', to a rather gushing Sairaag citizen, 909 AR  
  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
  
Contrary to what some believed, Loerik wasn't a man who truly went looking for fights. He would object to this perception with all of his considerable might. He did not, he would always say, even in later years, that he wasn't one who looked for trouble. He was a man to whom trouble seemed to run into him no matter how he wished it wouldn't do so.  
  
The present situation made him want to curse at the universe itself. Facing any master swordsman was an ordeal. Facing an excellent master swordsman with a penchant for insanity and hate was even less palatable. And he knew that the dangerous swordsman named Kalarus was exactly that - a powerful sword swinger with a queer light in his hate-filled face, looking for blood.  
  
His blood.  
  
"Hallia! Get out of here, now!" he told the priestess who stood beside her. Without waiting for any protest or reply, he thrust her away behind him with one strong arm, and stepped forward, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his body poised like a snake about to lash out.  
  
His enemy gave a giggle, which cut through the skin down to the bone. "At last, Gabriev, at last..."  
  
Without warning, the older swordsman leaped forward, bringing his sword up in a perfect arc that was parried by Loerik's rising steel. The blades moved, separated. Parry met thrust. Slash met strike. Two swords began to move in a duelling symphony, their steely music echoing despite the chaos around them. The battle seemed almost like a ballet, a deadly one with life being the price of the winner, death the only boon the loser would glean.  
  
Loerik was afraid, for good reason. He knew that, somehow, his death had become a sort of obsession for Kalarus - he could read it in every strike he blocked. The fear surged, but found itself pulled and routed through canalization. The training he had received from his father, the discipline and skill passed down through the Gabriev family took control. He forced himself to feel, not to block feelings, to live between each intake of breath.  
  
Kalarus stroke for his abdomen, he barely parried it pushing the attack upward and away, only to face it from another angle before he could retaliate. He jumped to the side to avoid it, but didn't quite manage. The blade bit in the leather, which protected his lower body, drawing blood. He groaned, but was on the move even as realized he had been hit. He swerved, turning somewhat on himself- and ducked just as the swing that would have decapitated him swung. As it passed over his head, he was already rising, and his blade cut a deep wound, cracking his opponent's ribs despite the mail the other man wore. An angry clash was repulsed, and both then stood, facing each other, eyes glazed, and one with the sword, having become weapons themselves.  
  
The fighting around the village stopped having significance. All except Kalarus became unsubstantial even as a thrill came, overriding the rest of the fear. The thrill of danger and of challenge. The two stayed poised upon the edge, both unheedful the bleeding wound they had received.  
  
Then Kalarus's blade rose a fraction, bringing about the spark, which was needed to light the terrible fire. Two tall, armoured men lunged at themselves with a grace and a brutality that was as powerful as it was amazing.  
  
The Sword of Light flashed against Kalarus' Bloodrider, as the two forms engaged a series of thrusts and recovery, of parry and blocks. Their arms moved faster than was possible, forced into a sort of semi-state of energetic precision. I mere moments, a dozen attacks had been launched and repelled on both sides, the blade touching one moment and twirling the next.  
  
Twice again Loerik hit his opponent, and twice he was hit - none of the wounds being anything dangerous, all mostly deflected from skill, fast reflexes and tough bodies. Muscles tensed, gazes locked. Loerik brought his sword up with deliberate slowness, up with his right arm, even as his hand gracefully came to rest before him. With the same skill but less finesse, Kalarus brought his into a two-handed grip, blade perfectly horizontal. Both men assessed each other for a second that seemed to stretch forever. Breath was forgotten, as both stood ready.  
  
Then, wordlessly, without any signal being given, they rushed at each other with all the energy they could muster.  
  
Loerik deflected the horizontal thrust with an swing from above, retaliating with a quick slash which was turned, defending once more as the enemy sword came right at his face. He thrust himself backward, the blade barely missing from smashing into his face, kicking with his left foot, hitting something even as he managed to use training and the eleven blood which ran in his veins to backflip, landing steadily enough on his feet, immediately striking forward, meeting his opponent head on. Once again, steel met steel in deadly deadlock as the dance continued.  
  
Ceipheed, he felt so ALIVE!!  
  
The duel continued, both deploying all of their means to ultimately be the victor. It was clear that Kalarus had the most experience with a blade, while Loerik had the greater stamina. Their blades - respectively of elven steel and master smith craftsmanship - were roughly equal since he found himself refusing to use the magical powers of the Sword of Light. All that they could do was keep on feinting and attacking, defending and gauging, caught in a deadly whirlwind which, had they known, caused other fighters in the village to either stare or flee outright.  
  
When the stalemate was finally broken, it was only a small thing. A slight variation. More than enough between swordsmen of this level.  
  
The fight had taken its toll on Kalarus just before it had on Loerik, it seemed. As the blades smashed against each other and gracefully pulled back to continue the dance, the older mercenary's arm trembled for the strain, loosening the one-handed hold he had at that moment. It was only a fleeting second, a moment to regain the grasp. But the black-haired swordsman had seen the tiny mistake, and had reacted automatically. His sword flashed in a quick curve, smashing through the momentarily-opened defences, carving a gouge thought the enemy's face from left cheek to eyebrow, gouging and shearing in a sudden, bloody attack.  
  
Kalarus reeled back; giving a cry that was more sheer hate than agony, clutching his face, blood pouring through his fingers. He flailed away with his blade, futilely trying to keep the younger man at bay. But his defences were down. He was helpless as the Sword of Light swept Bloodrider from his maddened grasp. Steeling himself inwardly, with a quick inward prayer to Ceipheed, Loerik Gabriev brought his sword up for the coup de grace.  
  
He didn't take one step before his rush was interrupted.  
  
The ground erupted in flames, and he was thrown backward, tumbling off to one side, momentarily blinded by the heat. The strength had to have been made with a fireball. He squinted, blinked tear-filled eyes and saw that, as his instinct had told him, a sorcerer was amongst the attacking raiders. Obviously, the wizard had thought he could finish him - or them both - in one fireball. He whirled around. No Kalarus, but no remains either. Where the devil was the blasted man! He'd come looking to fight! He should at least have the guts to accept defeat. Bereft of his foe, unheeding of the soothing, which came from his reason, Loerik shot a grim smile at the sorcerer even as his bloodlust coagulated in the suddenly-uncertain bastard.  
  
"You wanna take me on, mage?" he smirked, contempt rolling off his voice as he unfastened the blade from the hilt of his sword and presented it in front of him. "You've just made my day."  
  
Just then he coughed, and he was surprised to see blood there. Obviously some of the hits he had taken in the duel were quite deep. But it didn't really matter to him somehow, deep as he was in the thrill of a fight. He griped the hilt tighter as the sorcerer began chanting again, and spoke the words Gabrievs had uttered for thirty generations.  
  
The light of the blade immediately sprung to life, forming the fearsome agent of ancient, mystical power. Kalarus had wanted a fight, and so he hadn't used his magical blade. But the deal was off now. An enemy soldier attacked him, and he cleaved the man in half, the magical force slashing the man to pieces.  
  
Loerik Gabriev smiled, adrenaline trampling self-disgust.  
  
Without a moment of hesitation, he charged the frantic sorcerer; certain he would have one more to his personal death toll.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Fezra saw a bit of the tremendous duel, which occurred between Loerik, and that man she had immediately recognized - from stories she'd heard from her friends - as that bastard Kalarus. She had known Loerik was an excellent swordsman, but not THAT much. She didn't have time to stand and gape at the whirlwind of blade strikes occurring not far away, and neither could Marcus who stood just a few feet away. The two swordsmen may have put fear into the raiders, insuring that they'd be left quite alone, but the rest of the group hadn't been quite fortunate. Already she'd nailed eight raiders, and Marcus and she had then been caught in a fight against the four spellcasters amongst the raiding party.  
  
Two-on-one were never good odds. However, they soon discovered that the enemy was second-rate, hardly anywhere near their level. Their shields held against the spells thrown their way, while they themselves launched volley after volley of their own. Fezra's powerful flare arrows - all Inverse sorcerers had always been extremely gifted in anything having to do with fire - and Marcus's admittedly potent freeze arrows mingling and battering the enemy. Within minutes, six more enemy soldiers had died, one of the wizards lay unmoving, and another had gone off Ceipheed knew where. The two that remained, however, were definitely a pain, she decided as another spell impacted her shield.  
  
The throwing of spells, coupled with the days of hard travel she hadn't fully recuperated from, were taking a toll on her. She was tiring. But damn if she was going to show it. Inverses were known as many things - greedy bastards, dangerous psychos, roguish wizards and many other things had been their names at one time or another - but never quitters or cowards. She wasn't about to add that sort of name to the family tradition!  
  
So she hid her fatigue, strengthened her shield, and grinned cheekily to the man who stood next to her. "Hey Marcus! These guys just don't know when to quit while they're ahead, do they?"  
  
"I know, it's a real drag right now, ain't it?" he deadpanned, his own shield still holding, although she could see tiny signs of exertion. "I think we better try giving in to bigger spells if we want to take these two bastards here!"  
  
She knew he was right. The enemy wasn't anywhere as strong as they were, but they were strong enough that simple flare arrows wouldn't put them away. Bigger spells, however, were a tricky business, especially in a town where, amidst damaged stores and buildings and small fires, groups of farmers - and three friends - were fighting off the raiders themselves. They would never say it out loud, but they needed every ally they had, strained as the moment was.  
  
Still, what choice did they truly have? The farmers, as desperately and as bravely as they fought to protect family and home, weren't a match for trained warriors. Hallia was more a healer than a wizard. Loerik, who could probably have made things more even, was locked in a deadly fight. And finally Zasthla couldn't hope to hold her ground forever; no matter the fact she was quite gifted with a blade herself and already had killed many enemies.  
  
Loerik was too occupied to do anything; Hallia and Zasthla were out of her sight. Yes, Marcus' proposition had merits, as reluctant as she was to recognize it. Damn. Damn damn DAMN!!"  
  
"ARRGH!! Dammit! Okay, then!" she growled, focusing "Lets give them lots of things to think 'bout!"  
  
She turned to Marcus, who started to nod back to her, and then shouted. "Look out, Fez!!"  
  
Instinctive shielding barely saved her. Knowing from the way the fight was and the direction her friend was turning, she threw all she could into her shield at that very spot. However, she was so hasty in doing so that, although the shield broke up the fireball, which the stronger of the two wizards had thrown, it didn't really negate the flames surrounding it. The flood reached her, engulfed her in fire. For a moment, she screamed in pure pain and terror.  
  
However, Fezra Inverse was made of even sterner stuff then that. Barely a split second later, control returned, and she used her magic to wash away the flames from her body. She emerged from the inferno, singed, but still kicking. And quite beyond angry. She glared in murderous rage at the increasingly panicky enemies, blowing away one soldier who came too close with a Bram Blazer.  
  
"Okay! If that's how you want to play the game, screw all the rules! The village'll have to take its chances. Lets give it to them, Marcus!"  
  
She was so concentrated; she didn't hear the fact that there had been no reply from his side. She put her hands in front of herself, deliberately letting the magical shield fall to minimal strength. It wouldn't hold long this way, but she didn't mean to use it. Enough defensive offence. It was time for a full-blazing attack!  
  
She channelled the power, centering herself in the middle of an inferno, the wrath of the Demon-Dragon, fighting the energies with the strength of her soul, as few sorcerers could control such powerful spells. Finally they gathered, as her shield weakened even more, and she released her attack towards her enemies.  
  
"GAAV FLARE!"  
  
Her attack sped towards her enemies, a burning beam, stronger than any shield she knew they could muster. They only had the time to shield their faces before it hit, vaporizing them, and a good portion of the ground. The magical heat found it's way to her, but she ignored it. Instead she turned a furious mien towards her fellow wizard.  
  
"Marcus, you dumbass!" she growled in a voice that belied her slim stature, eyes ablaze. "Couldn't you have given me a ha....nd?"  
  
She stopped as she saw her red-haired friend, stiff, eyes staring, not dead or wounded but seemingly in a state of deep shock. So deep, in fact, that he was staring at her unseeing, as if he had seen a ghost. The pallor of his skin was more than a bit frightening, and it took everything she had not to recoil from him altogether. Events, however, conspired to make it so that she didn't even have much of a choice.  
  
The fighting in the village hadn't quite died down yet, although it seemed now that the farmers were gaining ground ever so slowly, their numbers overshadowing the skills of their opponents. One group of mercenaries, however, had cut through one fight, and ten of ten broke and sprinted towards them. The danger didn't quite mean anything to people who had lived with it for so long. Their swords gleamed, bloody in parts, as they sped up.  
  
She couldn't truly take them on. The fatigue was too much, the Gaav Flare had been all she was able to muster, the end of her strength. Still, she couldn't leave Marcus there, unknowing, watching a charge with staring eyes. The damn bastard was damn good, and although it irked her to admit, he was the only one - even beyond dear Berwen - whom she looked as a magical equal. It was such a pain. She gritted her teeth hard, cursed despite the tiredness she felt, and too a step to confront the attackers.  
  
She never had time to take more than that one step. Marcus's eyes focused on the arriving swordsmen, and his hands came forward.  
  
A fireball screamed forward, hurtling and exploding in the midst of the enemy, followed by another, then another. And yet another. The succession was insanely quick, certainly drawing into Marcus' very reserve. The area the mercenaries had been soon became little more than a pockmarked, charred patch of land. Nothing was there. Nothing could exist under such an onslaught. And still it continued unabated.  
  
"Marcus!! STOP!!" she screamed, but he only howled in response.  
  
"FIRE! FIRE! Always the fire! It took her, just like it did! Fire, fire everywhere! Fire! Fire!" he screamed with a face that showed such anguish that she choked. The situation was unreal. Marcus Jaderam had always seemed the most reasonable when things became rough. What could have made him snap? A thought struck her. Could it be...?  
  
Her daze was broken, and Marcus' strange funk broken, as Zashtla came into view and called for them to come help the villagers. The sorcerer blinked, hands trembling, as if awakening from a nightmare, and looked around. He spotted her, and gave her a pale, but reasonable look, which was nevertheless crossed by immense relief. And then he was gone, running to help the others in the fight.  
  
Leaving her drained and with possibilities and questions dancing in her head.  
  
Dancing in a way such ideas never quite had. It irritated her. HE irritated her.  
  
And, for a reason that had nothing to do with the strange rage she'd seen, he frightened her.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The more Narie saw of Sailune, the more she seemed to find it attractive. It was as clean as a city that size could hope to be. Paved streets ran to and fro, all in good repair by the order of the crown. With Philionel gladly - perhaps, because of the woman who'd look so queenly the other day, too gladly - showing them around, she had been privy to its secrets, its services and its wealth. Sailune, the City of White Magic, the city that had never fallen to any army or wizard for over half a millennia, was truly amazing.  
  
And yet, the more time passed, the more she felt something in her soul everytime she heard Lionel Greysword talk about Sairaag.  
  
"A city of temples, dedicated to Ceipheed and to the Four Dragon-Kings..." she mused as she walked through the royal garden "...entirely surrounded by the ocean, with the Holy Tree Flagoon looming over all, protecting." She fell silent as she continued.   
  
Being a friend of Crown Prince Philionel had had its good points. She had been given fresh priestly clothes to replace the worn ones, and had been put in one of the best guest rooms in the castle. Servants were catering to her. It was ironic. Only a few weeks ago she had been so near to breaking. She probably would have if...if Hallia and Loerik hadn't...  
  
She started to shiver as the memories began to resurface. No! No! Not again! She hugged herself, unknowingly hunching forward, as she was forcibly reminded of her time with the monster known as Kalarus. He had brought her to his tent against her will, pushing her and hurting her along the way. He had terrorized her in a way she had never felt. No because of the madness she had felt, but rather because of a hatred for women, hatred he didn't seem to understand himself, but upon which he thrived.  
  
And then he had started playing with her - 'teaching her a few trick' he had said. She had been powerless against him, and he'd liked that. His eyes almost glowed with pleasure as he began abusing her. She had struggled but it meant nothing - her powers were nullified, and she was no match for him physically. She had screamed, cursed, moaned, and finally pleaded. None of it stopped him. In fact it only seemed to make him feel better than ever, and if Hallia hadn't come when she had, she didn't know if she could have withstood it.  
  
She whimpered aloud. HAD she withstood it? Had she? Or was she simply fooling herself?  
  
A hand gently brushed her back.  
  
She screamed, jumping and turning eyes wide, backing away, the visions of the past flooding the present. For a moment she was back in the tent, with that monster, that sick fiend with the strange eyes. She let out a quick 'nononononono' and back-pedalled. Away. She had to get away! She started to scramble backward.  
  
Away. Get away! Nownownownownow...  
  
"Narie! Narie, snap out of it, its Lionel!" a voice sounded. It clashed with the terror, and pierced her fog of blind terror. Suddenly the tent was gone, and she was standing in the sun, amongst the trees and wandering paths of the gardens, with a brown-haired man looking at her with eyes that showed only confusion, no hatred or madness in them.  
  
She breathed fast, trying to regain her dignity, desperately pulling herself together. "Lionel!" she breathed in what she hoped was a normal voice. "You startled me."  
  
The apprentice to one of the Five Wiseman looked at her with wide eyes, his hand still outstretched towards her. He managed to cough out "Startled? You looked like you were getting an attack out there, and then you went frantic just now. That is all beyond startled! What happened?"  
  
It was a just question, and one she might have answered if only she was certain he'd truly understand. Those who had helped her those first few weeks - Hallia, Zasthla, Berwen, even Loerik and Fezra - had shown her understanding, but also irritation and pity. The pity. She'd been unable to take that even then. Now that she was back in control - she was! She MUST be! - she didn't want to find herself depending on others.  
  
So she simply set her mouth and turned away. "I'd prefer not to talk about it."  
  
It came too angrily; it seems, for the frown deepened into a scowl on the other end. "Maybe not, but if that whatever it was made you jump three feet in the air-"  
  
"I SAID I don't want to talk about it!" she hissed. There was a warning in her voice that had gone in, and it didn't pass unnoticed. Lionel stiffened and took a genuinely insulted air. She sighed as he began to wordlessly turn away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to come out like that. It's just...I went through a really bad thing and...It's still kicking a bit from time to time. So, can we just...not talk about it?"  
  
She knew that her apology, as awkward as it had been, had at least diffused the tension. Lionel turned back to her, nodding slowly.  
  
"Everyone has his or her demons. If you say its not my business...well it shouldn't be then." He mused. He shrugged. "If you ever need a listening ear, however, feel free to talk. My master and my fiancée both say I'm a pretty good listener."   
  
She gave him a tentative smile, and was about to respond to what he'd just said when a voice boomed across the gardens, making them both spin around to one of the arched entrances leading directly into the castle's royal wing.  
  
"HAHAHAHA! I have finally found you two!" Philionel laughed as his towering frame took giant steps towards them. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to visit without me being with you."  
  
"We were merely talking, nothing more than that. But what about you, Prince Philionel-"  
  
"Just Phil, please! I told you I detest the title with friends! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Philionel laughed raucously for no reason they could immediately discern.  
  
"My apologies. Phil, then, shouldn't you be taking this time to get to know your future wife?" Lionel grinned. It was a low blow and they all knew it. Phil flinched and Narie answered the question with a surprised glare.  
  
Philionel certainly hadn't taken the time to get to know Valmatian Di Elmekun any more than he immediately needed to. Aside from the dinners he'd been obliged to attend, the young heir to Sailune's throne had done all he could so that there wouldn't be time to talk to his father, let alone his fiancée. They hadn't been surprised - they'd heard all of the story from Phil on the way to Sailune. Of course, having talked with the future queen somewhat, she had found the young woman rather interesting and sympathetic.  
  
Phil coughed. "I...Princess Valmatia is resting and wasn't to be bothered. It would hardly have fit a warrior of justice such as myself to enter a woman's room without her permission."  
  
Lionel actually smirked at that. "Is that the Crown Prince of Sailune having cold feet when put with a woman chosen for him? I don't know if I should be amused or disgusted."  
  
Philionel di Sailune was such an eccentric man at time - always upholding justice's ways seemed so nauseating at times, she couldn't see that even from a shrine maiden's point of view. He was many things, but not stupid. The implications weren't lost, as Phil's eyes caught fire. Knowing what would be the end result if things escalated, Narie forced down the shivers she was still feeling and stepped between the two men, fixing the prince squarely.  
  
"Phil, please. Forget Lionel's ridiculous jibe and tell me - have you found the vault where what we want might be?"  
  
Phil stared at Lionel for a long moment, still tense, before gazing at her. "Not exactly. But I have been reading some ancient chronicles and I've found an interesting thing, which seems to serve to reveal the vault. It was a message. It went like this: Two Silvers, Red Fire, Three Bronzes, Blue Mire; The Door Revealed in Vault's Dire. I have no idea what it could mean, honestly."  
  
Narie drew herself up. The shivers had passed; her insecurity was contained - for now. "Then I think its time for us to look around a lot, no? How about getting to work?"  
  
Both men immediately agreed. The mission to save Berwen had gone up one more step. She only hope her other friends were doing well. And that their captured friend was holding on.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
She had to focus. That was all there was to it. If she focused her willpower, the discharge wouldn't seem so painful. She knew that if nothing else, it would at least make her appear composed, which was just what those damn sick bastards didn't want. She gritted her teeth as she waited for it, resolving not to let one scream, one whimper, pass through, contracting her throat.  
  
The magical electricity coursed through her collar, into her bones, searing white. Her body convulsed where it stood, skin trembling and stiffening at the same time, pain coursing light a flash. She bit her tongue once more, focusing. She had to focus, focus, focus! She tried to put her willpower forward. She won this time - not one sound escaped her mouth. Take that, you bastards!  
  
"Take that, take that..." she whispered to herself.  
  
Berwen had always had a core within herself, the same strength that had allowed her to succeed where many others had failed. Unlike very rare people like Fezra, Berwen had never been naturally gifted for magic. She had fought to gain the power she had, had clawed and grasped and struggled with herself to attain a level, which, being honest with herself was higher than what most sorceresses ever reached.  
  
Of course, Fezra had never needed to study a spell more than once or twice before managing to cast it effectively, unlike the rest of the trainees, who had to-  
  
The magic coursed through her again, surprising her, and this time she couldn't help but to have a whimper of pain escape her parched lips. She ranted at herself for letting her guard down, all the while knowing it was useless. She had been here, arms manacled to the ceiling of her small cell, for what seemed an eternity. And during all that indefinite length of time, they had done all they could to break her. They had never laid a hand on her directly - she surmised that it had more to do with having her whole physically than any gentleness or good heartedness - but they had found other ways to hurt her. Heat, cold, illusions, and magic, they had tried many debilitating tricks, some of a cruelty imagined, never letting her rest.  
  
She held on. First simply to displease them, now for herself. She had brought herself up a strong, steady person since no one else had truly ever been there to do it. She thrived on her ability to cope. Whatever happened, she wasn't about to lie down easily, wasn't about to let herself break without a fight.  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
The voice made her open her eyes, and she parted her lips into a feral snarl as she looked upon the form of the archmage Dallomir. Of all of those who had hurt her, he won the big prize, and the biggest slice of her hatred. It was he who had taken her to this place, he who had ordered all of these obscenities being committed upon her.  
  
She had never wanted to kill a being that much in years, perhaps ever. Even her mother, as vile as she'd been, had had some redeeming qualities.  
  
"I'm so glad to hear that." she rasped, her throat grating, trying to convey contempt and hate in her voice. It seemed to have no effect - the man was a hard nut to crack, hardly letting anything pass though his phlegmatic expression, at least when he talked to her. He looked almost bored with her reply, actually. With a wave of his hand, he sighed, and leaned upon the closed door, considering her.  
  
"I'm certain you are." he mused, almost to himself it seemed. "You are managing to control yourself remarquably well, and that is beginning to become unnerving. I have a tight schedule which must go forward if my goals are to be achieved."  
  
"My, what did you want me to say? I'm sorry?" she smirked. So what if he took it badly? She had nothing to lose here. But still he kept on staring at her calmly.  
  
"It doesn't have to be this way. Accept to serve me in an obedient fashion, and this will end. I can stop the pain as easily as I have started it. Everyone in this place, in one way or another, serves me. No one would discuss my order."  
  
It was a tempting way of putting the words, she knew. But she saw right through it. It was plainly written in the way he talked to her. Like she was some sort of doll, a pet. A possession not worthy of the name 'person'. It increased her rage, made her blow up. She spat at him ineffectually, and strained forward, her expression that of someone wanting blood.  
  
The magic kicked in at once, the pain forcing her to stop straining. She tried to hold it - in the beginning she could have done it. But not anymore. She was weakened, her body wouldn't support her will, and she convulsed, falling back. It only added fuel to her feeling of impotent fury. Dallomir, yes, that one would pay. One way, or another. She swore it.  
  
"Bastard. Just you wait." she breathed "You have no idea what damage Fezra will do to you when she gets her hands on you..."  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. "Fezra. You mean Fezra Inverse? I hardly think she will be much help to you. Or any of the others with her for all that."  
  
She grinned despite the situation. "You shouldn't underestimate them. Fezra can blast anything she wants, and the others aren't too bad either. You may think you're tough right now, but you won't be once they arrive here to get me."  
  
"I don't think you understand the situation, my dear child." he stated.  
  
"No, its you who don't understand. They'll get you so bad for this you'll never believe the pain!" she relished the thought. When the others got here and freed her, she would convince them to let him live so that she could have her turn. She would roast him alive, she would. Oh yes, she would.  
  
Dallomir only shook his hand again. "You misunderstand, I think. You think I do not believe your friends' strength will be sufficient. I am telling you that they will not try to help you, period. You see, I made a deal with your good friend."  
  
Her eyes widened. Then she chuckled. "Really, do you expect me to believe an obvious lie like that?"  
  
"Believe what you want, the fact remains that the deal was made. You were becoming cumbersome to miss Inverse, especially since you supposedly keep restraining her rapport with Marcus Jaderam." he stopped and considered "Its not that surprising, when you think about it. You are strong, yet compared to them, you are weak and unskilled."  
  
She growled. What lies. Yet how could he know about her trying to stop Fez's relationship with Marcus? She had kept it as secret as she could, never talking of it overtly. She had doubted the others would understand her agitation. She had in fact feared they might interpret it the wrong way. But then again, Fezra must have deduced something - as reckless as she had always been, the other girl had a good deductive capability. Could it be, that she had seen it and...  
  
No, she absolutely refused to believe such a thing! Fezra and she had been friends even before they had entered the magic guild in Zefielia. They had been through so much together. They had had adventures. Oh, where had it gone wrong? How could it have gone wrong? They had been so close once, but ever since that...that man had come along...ever since they had begun that little band...  
  
"No..." she forced herself to say it. To her chagrin, a part of her doubted her own truths. He was lying. He was. "This is just a trick. A trick to get to me."  
  
"Truly? You doubt the fact your friend was tired of having you following around like a puppy, lessening her impact on the sole man she saw as her equal? As the man she loved? How naive can one get." he said, opening the door to the outside. "But stay with your truths. I know I am speaking no lie here. Surely you felt it."  
  
She growled at him, fighting the doubt. It couldn't be. She was certain Fezra would never leave her here to be...but still...if she had learned why she was being so persistent at keeping her and Marcus apart. She had seen the unvoiced affection, which, unlike Loerik and Hallia, wasn't a plain one. Love and spite could make someone do awful things. What if that was Fezra's way of telling her she had hated being pushed away from what she wanted?  
  
No. No! It was just her imagination running wild...was it? Really, was it?  
  
Just then, the torture began again, pain coursing through her body. She let out a yell of mixed rage and pain, and then stifled it. No. It wasn't true. She would hold on. They would get her before she was used for whatever they wanted.  
  
Ceipheed, let them come soon!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dallomir's tower was full of places that few knew about. Having been built centuries ago by the first Lumerian sorcerers, it was a maze of chambers, arches and passageways. Even Dallomir, who had lived most of his life inside and around the tower, didn't know all of the places in it. Nor had he ever had much interest in finding out - he was more interested in researching new spells and poking artefacts than playing adventurer inside his own house.  
  
Which was just as well. Mellinius, however, had a slightly more thorough streak, and this had allowed him to put together this meeting, in one of the few places Dallomir's spells didn't reach. Not a man prone to secrecy, he knew that, in this case, it was in every way necessary to do so.  
  
After all, prudence was paramount when one started to think about overthrowing the most powerful Lumerian archmage.  
  
Six others sat around a table with him, all people he had probed, subtly questioned, and found trustworthy. All of them were wizards of varying levels of power - although none even went near Mellinius'. All of them had seen the growing madness, which was jeopardizing everything they had ever worked for, forcing them to revise their loyalty.  
  
Mellinius tapped a finger on the wood. "So, Hergav. Are you quite certain of what you've just told us?"  
  
A burly man nodded. "I can't help but be certain, Mellinius! I was there! I scryed the battlefield around the Kalgafon Hills. There's no doubt about it now - the Kingdom's army is definitely beaten."  
  
That was a sobering thought to all concerned, even if none there could truly say they were surprised to hear of it. They had known through magical means that a force of ten thousand lumerian footmen and nearly five hundred knights was to attempt to fortify the Kalgafon against further imperial attacks. It was a last-ditch attempt, aimed at buying time for the kingdom. Everyone knew, after all, of the enormous army mass that remained in Elmekia's camps. But they hadn't thought that this last effort, led by most of the remaining veteran troops in the realm, would fail so quickly.  
  
"Casualties?" he asked.  
  
"Five thousand dead, most of the rest either wounded or captured. Six thousand and half that in wounded on Elmekia's side."  
  
Another sorcerer piped up. "At least they didn't manage to overwhelm our forces easily."  
  
"A good show, perhaps, but a futile one. Remember that they estimate the total remaining imperial forces at over twenty thousand. They still have enough to besiege and conquer the capital...and annex Lumeria."  
  
"Never!"  
  
"Why isn't Dallomir unveiling his weapons to push the emperor back?" one asked in angry exasperation.  
  
There lay the whole problem. As long as it had seemed that his former mentor wanted to create weapons to turn the desperate tide, Mellinius had been willing to put up with all of the eccentricities, all the dubious looks and the increasing feeling that he was doing something wrong by staying silent. He had always thought that if anyone could save the kingdom, Dallomir could. How wrong he had been proven at the test.  
  
Dallomir wasn't looking for any weapon to help the kingdom. Instead, for the past few days, he had taken a sort of perverse interest in breaking that sorceress who had fought against them in the lower depths of the temple. The thought of allowing that had made him sick, but he'd said nothing. Partly because he knew it wouldn't have changed anything, mostly because he no longer knew what to make of the other man.  
  
At long last, he spoke, feeling old, tired, but determined to amend for blinding himself to the truth about Dallomir for so long. "Dallomir does plan to unveil a weapon. However, his methods are slow, and against guild laws here. Even so, I might have let him do as he wishes, but now he seems to think of nothing else but this experiment..."  
  
"I've heard a rumour...that he was trying to create..." another of the conspirators, a woman, began, and then fumbled as what she said became difficult. He decided to take a weight off her.  
  
"If you mean to know if it is true that our former master is trying to create a human chimera, you would be correct." he sated, then sighed, almost trembling.  
  
The others reacted badly to this, staring or whispering prayers amongst themselves. Making any kind of chimera was something that most guilds didn't approve of. Human chimeras, however, the bonding of a human with other elements from other creatures, had been banned by Oerlus the Silent mere days after the War of Resurrection ended, and was written in the rules all guilds should follow two years later. In the nine hundred years since then, that rule had remained intact.  
  
"If the guild hears of this...we are dead. We'll be hunted and executed by their Force Wizards." one gasped.  
  
"Its worse than you know." Mellinus interjected. "We aren't only in the presence of a chimeric experiment, but the reconstruction of the means Lei Magnus used to form his chimeric enforcers a millennia ago, shortly before the War broke out."  
  
Pandemonium immediately erupted.  
  
"We have to do something!"  
  
"Do something?!? Like what? Attack him? Are you crazed? Cronies, artefacts - some from the Lost Lores, surround the man! - and then there's Jomekin. Do any of you think any of us stands a chance of defeating Jomekin?!?"  
  
"That's enough! Going ahead and panicking won't help us. We have to think calmly and logically." Mellinius barked, regaining control before he lost them. He refrained from giving in to the truth of the statement. He knew first hand how powerful and cunning Jomekin was, and how the childlike man seemed to relish maiming before going for the kill. Frankly, he thought that he, if he was helped by all assembled here, would be able to kill Jomekin. But Jomekin and Dallomir, both armed with magic-enhancing Lores? "I have already communicated to one with the means to help us."  
  
That, at least, held their interest. Finally, one asked the obvious question which burned their minds like a wildfire. "Who can help us? The guild would sooner kill us, and the King no longer has any means by which-"  
  
"Not the king, my friend." he cut off. "He indeed has no army or means anymore. But the Emperor of Elmekia does. His armies are powerful, he has the money and the magical power to aid us."  
  
The situation went out of hand immediately. All ranted, shouts of disbelief echoing on the walls. A few begged Mellinius to reconsider, others told him he was mad, and one even went as far as to tell him he was committing treason against Lumeria. The last snapped what little patience he had left. He knew the dangers, had told them, and yet they still squirmed! He slammed his hand, using minor magic to make it sound like a thunderclap, commanding silence.  
  
"Do not be worse fools than you sound!" he growled, "Dallomir is recreating Lei Magnus' experiments, and his sanity is slipping quickly! Who knows where it will stop? Do you want to run the risk of another War of Resurrection? The intelligent dragons are few and secretive these days, the elves have all but gone from our world, hidden away on Mipross! And there is no Water Dragon King to lead us now! I highly doubt humanity alone would be able to manage another Battle of Safalla. Do you want to take that chance?"  
  
He looked at them all. None had anything to add at that. And if some still looked indignant, none voice another objection. He nodded gravely. "I figured as much. Yes, we might be doing Lumeria a disservice, but my dream of a freed realm is today unrealistic. The time to act has passed in that respect. But it's not too late here - we might still save ourselves from making an horrendous deed!"  
  
He hesitated for a moment, and then rose. "From this moment on, we must consider ourselves renegades here. We will meet here only once, before striking."  
  
They all agreed. As he had known they would  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"An interesting development."  
  
"A development? An element amongst others. Amongst many others. Unimportant now, all for the culmination of my plan."  
  
"You have waited long. I am curious to see what else you are prepared to manipulate?"  
  
"Why, nothing."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"There is no need. They are all doing exactly what I want, playing their parts as well as can be expected. And they have - nor will they ever have - any hint that anyone was behind the scenes."  
  
"Are you so certain of that?"  
  
"Of course. They are human. And no human would believe that his decisions were based on the action of another. Proud, narrow-minded fools. They are perfect."  
  
__________________________________________________________  
  
Force Wizards: They are the enforcers in the guilds, those who neutralize sorcerers who have gone against the rules of the guild or become a great danger to themselves or the world.  
  
Battle of Safalla: The last battle of the War of Resurrection, where the combined might of the Triad Army Lead by the Water Dragon King faced the main forces of the Mazoku lead by Gaav the Demon Dragon. Although it suffered some terrible loss, this battle - which lasted nineteen days and nineteen nights - was where the Triad Army narrowly defeated the Mazoku, and where the Water Dragon King used the Giga Slave for the first time in history, managing to control it at the cost of his own life. The After Resurrection calendar supposedly dates back to the dawn after the Battle of Safalla ended. 


	11. Chapter Ten

"Yes, quite right. I did forget, for a little while. Forget the pain of my existence, of the choice I had made which separated me from my family. Human. That's what I chose to be. I didn't know why, couldn't truly understand why, until the day I fought Kalarus for the second time.  
  
It was so obvious. I became human because I could never have been able to live peacefully for centuries. To me, it was better to live only a few decades - even if that meant doing wrong things at times."  
  
-Loerik Gabriev, talking to his sons  
  
"Even now, I find it hard to believe that events which would shake the human realms originated from the mind of one woman who felt she had been betrayed by all she ever believed them. Is it the sum, of human karma? Or just a cruel jest from the Gods?  
  
-Rezo the Red Priest, letter to his son 997 AR  
  
Chapter Ten  
The village had taken a terrible toll, but it had survived. Houses had been partially burned, and people killed. Yet the sorrow was mingled with a sense of victory. The villagers had, after all, beaten back an invading mercenary force - and that was no small feat! So although the grief from those who had lost loved ones was poignant, the people had buried their dead and, with much courage, had begun to rebuild their homes.  
  
Loerik knew that he and his friends were seen as heroes for helping the farmers and merchants. All told of the way they had turned the tide with mighty spells and strong blades. The fact that they had had no choice but to defend themselves - that most would have fought in these circumstances - went unheard and unheeded depending on the person. It bothered him more than he would allow himself to admit.  
  
But even so, this blind admiration was secondary. He didn't care about it much compared to other things. Like Kalarus. Like how he'd acted during the battle.  
  
He had thought that he had only fallen with a bad group, that the violence he felt like using was only the result of living besides people who lived by harsh rules themselves. He'd fallen in with the people he was with now with a sense of relief. All of them - Fezra, Marcus, Phil, Berwen, Zasthla....Hallia - all of them were good people who, despite personal quirks, wouldn't abuse their own strength unless the situation dictated it.  
  
But he had felt good, so very GOOD, about fighting Kalarus in a duel to the death.  
  
He had felt a thrill when his enemy had fallen back, wounded, weakened, and ready to be vanquished.  
  
And it had angered him to be unable to finish the work he had begun. Enough that he took it out on the other soldiers he had subsequently attacked.  
  
What did that say about him?  
  
Senses heightened by his elven blood and by years of honing detected the presence entering his room, as silent as it was. He instinctively knew who it was, was glad to feel that particular presence. But he didn't turn around, only kept staring through the window at the scarred, subdued streets as the days waned. The presence approached him until it stood right behind him and spoke.  
  
"You've missed dinner."  
  
It was almost enough to make him laugh. But not quite. Indeed, he hadn't gone to dine with the others that night, something that he knew wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Fezra and Marcus ate very much - Fezra especially, and from her words it was a family trait - but he beat them all. He was able to eat two full hams with mounds of vegetables, cake, and other edibles. Even Phil, despite his huge frame, didn't eat quite as much. Yes, it would have been peculiar to them all. But it still sounded funny.  
  
It was thus with a very careful voice that he said. "Sorry. Wasn't hungry tonight." he cracked a grin at it - he might as well have said that the sky was green and the trees blue! He waited for a remark, and was surprised when it came.  
  
"You can't keep being like this. It was a battle. You've been to plenty of battles. It shouldn't bother you that -"  
  
"That's where you're wrong, Hallia!" he cut off, swivelling around on his stool, coming face-to-face with the green-haired priestess. Tall as he was, he didn't raise his head to look her in the eye. "It should bother me! Everything about it should! I was raised in Mipross, by the elves!"  
  
But she shook her head. "It doesn't change anything. People don't become more of something or less of something because of the place they are born in! My father always told me..." a spasm of sadness crossed her face before quickly fading. "My father always told me that a person becomes what she is fated to become."  
  
"Well, that makes it so much better to know I am fated to become a brute!" he laughed mirthlessly.  
  
"You are not a brute."  
  
And how did she know that? How could she? He came from a family where violence was secondary. His father Rowdy had the most of it inside of him, and yet it paled compared to Loerik's own lust for battle. "I don't think you understand. I felt good about the fighting. I felt alive during the fighting. Worse, I think I had fun running after those mercenaries!"  
  
"It was a battle. Everyone is different during a battle! Instincts take over. I know. I've seen it. And I've done it."  
  
He turned his face away. "You don't understand, Hallia. Some of the things I did-yeeark!" he yelped as a slender hand took old of his hair and yanked his face in front of eyes which looked at him angrily from below green bangs.  
  
"Now listen to me, Loerik Gabriev." she stated in frustration, eyes flashing, "It was a battle. You were fighting that bastard Kalarus in a fight that certainly took a lot out of you, the way you two were moving around like little whirlwinds! So you lost control. So what of it?!? They were mercenaries, and bad ones. You may have been pretty rough on some, but I've seen some do things that...well...lets say it wasn't pretty. But that's how they are. And I know you're not like that. I know you're a brave man. You getting upset over it proves it, don't you see?!? You're a decent man. I know that. We all do."  
  
Her voice had become softer and softer as she spoke, until she was almost whispering the last sentence. He put one hand on her shoulder, and one to the hand that grasped his hair. With little effort he loosened it, and then kept holding it, awkward. His tongue seemed made of clay, but he managed to push on.  
  
"Thank you." he said at length "I don't know if I believe you, but...thank you."  
  
She looked at his hand holding hers, then back at him. She looked slightly bemused by a thought, and then leaned forward, forcing him back. He didn't quite know what she had in mind, so he kept leaning back, and back...  
  
...and then he fell backward, right to the floor, taking her with him. They both yelped, then found themselves into a tangled heap. She disentangled herself from him and glared in what was close to hatred for a moment. He could only blink at the sudden change.  
  
"I don't believe it! You actually fell back from a kiss! Of all the..." she huffed, couldn't bring herself to speak anymore, struggling to her feet.  
  
"A kiss? Ah, so that was why you were leaning in that much." he nodded to himself, and then realization struck, shattering any thoughts of fighting and elven upbringing. "What?!? A KISS?!? You wanted to give me a kiss?!?"  
  
"So what?" she said heatedly, then immediately calmed down when she realized just what she had said. Obviously the situation had made her tongue run wild, and now she felt a little out of sorts.  
  
So did Loerik, actually, but not exactly for the same reasons. Soundlessly he nodded to himself. Indeed, so what? Wasn't it what he'd wanted? Yes, it very much was, he realized. But he'd let his discomfort at her blunt affirmations make him forget that. Perhaps there was such a thing as carrying too much guilt... although he couldn't quite make himself admit it out loud.  
  
He rose to his feet, feeling foolish and yet strangely glad for this whole conversation - and its possible repercussions. He spread his hands. "Perhaps I'm a bit hungry, when you think about it. I think I'll go eat."  
  
She blinked, then chuckled. "I can't believe it took you so long to understand, you mercenary."  
  
Not quite knowing what he did, yet knowing that this had been his wish for a long time, he put his arms around her. Gently. More gently then what he'd done with anyone for over three years. She didn't tense when he did. Only faintly smirked as if she knew the whirlwind of emotions, which went through his head.  
  
"Don't crash backward this time." she taunted.  
  
"Its the last thing I want to do." he replied.  
  
And indeed, when she leaned forward, he didn't. He actually went forward himself as he embraced Hallia for the first time.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"And what are we doing here, prince Philionel?"  
  
"Please, please, just call me Phil. No need for formality between us."  
  
"As you say. But it still doesn't answer my question."  
  
Phil almost sighed at Lionel's comment. It appeared that the easy camaraderie he had so enjoyed with others such as Fezra, Loerik and others, had faded away with these two. The serious apprentice had always been a bit too formal on the road, as had that young priestess, Narie. But being back in Sailune, with them fully realizing that he was destined to one day lead this powerful country, had only increased the way they acted around him. Little by little, and especially in the last few days, they had distanced themselves from him.  
  
Well, that was the price he had to pay, he supposed. He truly didn't think much of his future - marrying that stern lady Valmatia, becoming king and being restrained in all he did forevermore - but he was bound to it. And if nothing else, Philionel Di Sailune was a man of honour.  
  
"I was thinking about the riddle we'd found. It was old. Very old. But I didn't really know how old 'till I found some poems written by the same hand in n old book." he looked at the others with him. "If what I found is any good, it was written by Queen Deljani, the bride of Sai Lune the Holy."  
  
Lionel coughed. "That is a very interesting find, I'm sure. So this was written almost a millennia ago. It still doesn't answer this simple question: why are we here?"  
  
Phil looked around. "The poem talked of many things, but it was old. Very old. And this part of the castle has been preserved from the original keep it grew out of - by a sacred order sealed by Sai Lune himself and respected by all of his descendants."  
  
They looked around, surrounded as they were by a crumbling room, below the pristine halls of the royal wing. The room itself was gloomy, barely illuminated by the torches and magical lights that the three used. Pieces of old stones had fallen on the ground since then, and a thick film of dust was everywhere to be seen, coating things and rendering most features unrecognizable.  
  
"Charming. It has all the looks of an old dungeon." Lionel cut in. But Narie shook her head.  
  
"No, I think Phil is right - there is something here. Something old but not evil. This place was touched by White Magic, extremely powerful White Magic!"  
  
Phil mused at this. "Sai Lune was perhaps the strongest White Magic user in the human realm in his day. Perhaps he did something here. Let us look around."  
  
They did, gingerly. The place looked empty, but the darkness could have hidden many things. He was rather amazed at the amount of dust everywhere. Obviously, it had stood there, forgotten, for quite some time. Reached as it was by a series of passageways that only Philionel and, it seemed likely, his late mother knew about, it had been conveniently forgotten for centuries, even as the castles became ever grander.  
  
Perhaps that was what Sai Lune had wanted. For the secrets to stay forgotten, buried deep inside a stronghold, guarded only by the mists of history. A noble goal, but if what Lionel said bore any truth to it, the great priest had used a device that they truly might find handy if they were to face those dangerous sorcerers once more.  
  
He heard Narie cough sharply as she walked. "Gah, the reek and the dust really make this room unbearable! I can't believe your mother actually came down here."  
  
"She probably did. Once. She was prone to adventuring a bit, something I've inherited." he grinned fondly at the memories he had of her - good memories he cherished. "But knowing her, she probably left a mere moment after entering. She was adventurous, but loved the comforts of her wealth and standing. Which is why she never set out outside and why she read so many books written by those who did."  
  
His train of storytelling was sharply interrupted when Narie uttered the cry. "Now there's something interesting!"  
  
Both rushed to her, and saw what she meant. On a wall, distanced by about ten feet, there looked to be two carvings, set on blocks of stones. The dust and the centuries of time had eroded many features, but it was clear both had been intended to hold something. Lionel immediately started looking at them, scrubbing dust gently, poking and rubbing, until he seemed to stop and stare at something for long moments. Philionel was about to ask what was wrong, when he turned back to them.  
  
"This is, if memory serves, a carving of Shabranigdu and Gaav the demon dragon, in either steel or silver." he let them digest this and squinted at what appeared to be written text on the block. "Hmm, its old, but I believe it says 'Remember they came, remember they were, remember they brought the fires of destruction.'"  
  
Phil frowned. "Its clear that the Mazoku destroyed most of the world during the War of Resurrection. Scars still remain even today of this apocalypse."  
  
"But legends are still remembered of those who saved what they could, and rebuilt what they could not." Narie said in a strange voice. "Look at this, both of you. If that over there is a rendition of Shabranigdu and Gaav, what do you think this is?"  
  
It was a carving, in old bronze or copper, of a Dragon, with what appeared to be two humans straddling it. No. Not humans. One was human, but the other was much smaller, very slender. An elf. Human, Elf, Dragon.  
  
"The three great races," he realized "Those who formed the Triad and stopped the Mazoku."  
  
"Very possible." Lionel agreed "Please move over, thank you. Now let me see...ahh yes. The same old dialect. It says-"  
  
"Remember the fires were extinguished, when all remembered they were friends to this plane. Remember they brought the clearness of hope." Both stared at Phil and he shrugged. "My mother rarely went outside, but she did read a lot. Including some old dialects. She taught me bits."  
  
"But what is the reason they're here?"  
  
"Wildly guessing? It could be a sort of ritual doorway, a cryptic message of some sort. I doubt, prince, that your ancestor would simply have put a door leading to magic he wanted to remain hidden."  
  
That made sense. "It also resembles things I've seen when our group had our ill-fated visit to the elven temple." Phil remembered the devices they had activated at times. The statues looked rather the same, only smaller. It hadn't been built by the entire First Knights with draconian and perhaps elven assistance. Sai Lune, his wife, and perhaps a few others, had built this. As thus, it was powerful, but primitive compared to what they had encountered before - or rather he had, since neither of those with him had actually been to the ruins.  
  
Lionel was in full investigative mode, his eyes dimmed as he looked at the problem. "Two silvers, red fire, three bronzes, blue mire...it's a code. Either they are asking us for a specific action, or a sequence, or simply to give them elements."  
  
Phil shrugged. "Why not just experiment and see what happens?" he asked, only to receive an incredulous glare.  
  
"Let us not be hasty, prince Philionel. This is a place imbued with much magic. Narie can feel it and so can I. If this force is still potent after such a long time, it must mean that a lot of efforts were put into creating it. And I've read a bit about Sai Lune the Holy. Although I doubt he'd be my master's equal in all matters, he certainly was when it came to white magic. This means that tempering with the spell blindly could be...uncomfortable."  
  
They all looked into the gloom, at the two statues depicting the sides, which had fought in an epic conflict long ago. A lock to the secrets left there by Phil's distant ancestor. But since they didn't know what the key was...  
  
"How about going back up and looking at things over a cup of tea?" came a joyous voice "Halsteroy bean tea, the finest in Sailune!"  
  
All turned in surprise, to face a new arrival that waved as they looked. Phil's eyes widened in recognition.  
  
"You?!?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Next time we go somewhere, I'LL pick the road!" Hallia growled as she threw off two bandits with a Diem Wind.  
  
"Aw, come on, Hallia dear! Admit it! This is so much fun you can't think straight!"  
  
"YOU can't think straight! That settles it! The rumour's true - ALL Inverses are CRAZY!"  
  
The light banter between two friends wasn't anything new - if nothing else, arguing and sniping at each other was ordinarily reserved either between enemies or between good friends. And Marcus knew that Hallia and Fezra would never be the former. However, the situation in which the banter took place in itself was peculiar - he'd never heard of one taking place in the middle of a bandit gang.  
  
Not that the bandit gang was any challenge. Fezra had brought them all straight in the hideout of one which didn't have more than forty members. He knew from experience that Hallia and Zasthla were worth three or four. Loerik could have taken most of them himself, not to say Fezra and Marcus himself. With all five of them, the fight had turned to their advantage with hardly a beat.  
  
Already he'd seen Loerik down three of his foes in quick succession, while Zasthla cut down one and held off two others. He, Hallia and Fezra stood in a circle, and proceeded to beat off or shoot any bandit coming their way.  
  
He blasted one with a Flare arrow. "That's five for me! I'm in the lead!" he said.  
  
Fezra smirked. "Not even close!" and she proceeded to fire a Burst Rondo, frying two of the bandits in one blow. "Here! That's six!"  
  
He faintly heard Hallia sigh in dismay. "You two will always be children, won't you?" in a semi-amused voice.  
  
He truly wished she were right. It would certainly make things easier for him.  
  
The battle had barely begun, and yet it had ended. No more bandits came their way, and he spied Zasthla and Loerik chasing down some of the remaining ones, before returning towards them at a more leisurely pace. Even at this distance, he could clearly divine that they were laughing at the fleeing forces, joking about them. They were mercenaries, after all. Better than the run-of-the-mill militia, and much better than a few bandits. No wonder they laughed.  
  
They came towards them as Fezra began to look about the wooden huts that made up the hidden hideout. Marcus shot her a look, and then closed his eyes, shuddering, before smiling at Loerik who had come up. "They weren't much of a sport to you, eh my friend?"  
  
The tall warrior just grinned and shrugged, before clapping him on the shoulder slightly, and then walking to Hallia, as usual.  
  
There was something about the two looking at each other - Loerik with his uncertain but affectionate smile, Hallia with her welcoming posture and subtle softening of her eyes, which told him that the relationship between the two had reached a new level. An event Marcus himself had helped achieve, in keeping constant precious on his less-bright, vigorous and relatively clueless warrior friend.  
  
It was strange. Not that he meant that he didn't feel happy about the two being together now. He sincerely hoped that the feelings they felt for each other continued to grow, and that in the end, the two found their own bliss. A family, perhaps children. He really wanted to see a friend achieve that.  
  
The gods knew he certainly wasn't about to. Too proud. Too scared by his own nightmares. He couldn't allow himself to go near him, to become attached to him. Fezra, for example. He knew that, in a way he truly didn't want to compare to Loerik's, she had become important to him.  
  
Important?  
  
No. More than that. He knew it now. Because of the fire.  
  
During the battle against the mercenary force in that small village, mages had managed to take Fezra by surprise, engulfing her in magical flames. Her instincts had been too quick for them, however, and she HAD managed to get her own shields ready at the very last moment. But it hadn't lessened what he'd felt. He'd seen her lost in the fire for that moment, and once more he saw his old nightmare. His mother dying, burned to the stake by mage-haters. A mob of blind fools amongst whom his father stood. His father. The monster that had let his own wife go to a gruesome death willingly, even gladly.  
  
He wasn't one to take things as an omen. His studies in the metaphysical hadn't changed the belief that a vision during a situation was only the direct result of stress and an overimaginative mind. But it still hurt him.  
  
He hadn't allowed himself to show his depressive thoughts, unlike Loerik, who had been plainly shaken by what happened during the battle. But whereas Loerik had shaken off his gloom - much more than that, it seemed - it hadn't worked the same way for the mage he was. He had kept it alive, something that he knew reason argued against, yet something he couldn't stop.  
  
He might have laughed at the irony of it all, if he'd found anything about the situation worth laughing about. In the final analysis, he felt lost.  
  
"You might not believe this, but you should remember: Fez is very much alive, and there is no use in torturing yourself."  
  
He looked to his right, and found Zasthla looking at him, the athletic woman regarding him with a pensive mien. "What do you mean?" he asked, knowing he was being foolish the moment the words left his lips. It wasn't the most momentous thing he'd ever said, and her expression turned sour in return.  
  
"I can't believe I'm hearing this kind of talk from you. I'm used to hearing it from Loerik or Fezra, but Loerik is too focused on the mercenary side of life and Fezra has an uncanny ability to go on tangents. You do neither of these things. In fact, you always seemed to be the most sensible in our bunch, even more so then me or even Hallia."  
  
"Why thank you." he said blandly, knowing full well she wasn't finished.  
  
"What I don't understand is why you're letting what happened to her bother you so damn much and still act like it's a breezy day! Don't think we haven't seen you stare into nothing at times. We all noticed, except perhaps Loerik, but that's because he was in something himself. So I'm going to tell you again: she's FINE! Now tell me what's going on in that head of yours!"  
  
He was taken aback, for two reasons. The most important of which was the fact that she was asking such a personal question to him. The second reason was that she was asking it at all. Of all of them, she had been the least talkative next to Narie. And she was the last person he'd ever expected to have this conversation with.  
  
Still, old wounds being what they were, he couldn't give her what she wanted. They were all his friends - or at least he hoped that was what he felt about them all - but some things weren't meant for friends.  
  
So he shrugged and simply said. "Sometimes its just that...no, no forget it."  
  
"I will not. Tell me something at least."  
  
Tell her something. His irritation began to grow. For years he'd been living with the old pain, had endured it in the forms of recurrent nightmares. It had defined part of his life, had made him cling to his magic powers and force them to grow fast, so that he would do the things his mother could never do, and so that he could protect himself if the need arose. Scathing words were on his lips, but they died unspoken. He sighed.  
  
He'd tell something. He owed friendship that much. "Sometimes my past interferes with my present. My life wasn't always easy."  
  
"And were any of ours? Mine? Loerik's? All of us had things happening, thing we want to keep as private as possible. Ceipheed knows I do. Just don't let it destroy you."  
  
With that they both started walking again, going to join the others as they talked not far off. Fezra was already hunting for the bandits' loot, and the two were giving themselves looks that told more than a thousand words.   
  
Be destroyed by his nightmares? Never. After all, he'd come too far to let that happen.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
There was so much tension in the air that the atmosphere seemed to crackle with it. Confusion, distrust, suspicion, the dark emotions which surged forth from the beings seated near him were strong, and permeated the room comfortably. More than anything, it was this that sated the appetite of the powerful Mazoku known as Xellos.  
  
Still, the trickster priest realized, he liked the wine he was drinking, and the spiced hors-d'oeuvre the prince had asked for with a wave of his hand were a delicacy to the palate. Not that he often had a palate the way humans saw it, but he enjoyed it now in his human shape.  
  
From barely opened eyes, he surveyed the room. Paintings, proud columns, tall windows of the purest glass covered by silken curtains. This was a chamber containing more wealth than an entire village could amass in a lifetime. It only served to show that things had truly changed in Sailune.  
  
The only other time he had come, had been before it had been named as it was, when all he had seen were crude huts and wooden houses clustered around a temple. There, he had met Sai Lune.   
  
The meeting hadn't been a friendly one, but it was cordial. Lune had no intention of starting a fight in the middle of his own town, and Xellos himself hadn't wanted to fight, period. The so-called War of Resurrection had ended, and the Mazoku's powers were weakened. He was in no position to fight someone of Sai Lune's power. Besides, he had liked the place - it was the least rundown of the small clumps of humanity rising here and there.  
  
And centuries later, all this. Xellos had always found humans to be something that the elves and dragons hadn't proven to be. Where the Dragons - including his old enemy Milgazia - had simply cut themselves off from the world in their protected Katarto Mountains, and the elves had cut themselves off until they only lived in hidden Mipross nowadays, the humans had attempted to rebuild, and had succeeded admirably. He liked people who didn't give up easily.  
  
It was Philionel who broke the silence first - as he'd suspected he would. "What do you want, sir?" the voice was polite, but firm.  
  
Direct, was he? So be it! "Why, the same thing you want! I want into that place! I want to uncover the Lost Lores of Sai Lune and free Berwen from her shackles!"  
  
Lionel - ah yes, the boy who always seemed full of contempt and yet who was utterly lacking in self-confidence - narrowed his eyes. "That is detailed knowledge. How do you know so much?" he asked in a voice heavy with suspicion.  
  
Oh, he liked it when they asked that!  
  
He liked answering those questions!  
  
He put on his most cheerful smile, tilted his head, and announced. "THAT is a secret!"  
  
He saw to his satisfaction that the huge prince's face flickered with annoyance - possibly from the times he'd said this answer during his brief stay in that delightful group of adventurers. The apprentice only frowned, probably just irritated at the lack of forthcoming information. But it was the shrine maiden he observed while savouring one of those delicious pork pâtés.  
  
Outwardly, she seemed as controlled and determined as her friends. But it was only skin deep. Inside, she was still shattered, and shattering further. The more she put into maintaining the wall of confidence, the more the interior increased in its decay. She was both unwilling and unable to stop this doomed cycle. At one point, she would break. And what would happen then? He couldn't tell. But the turmoil inside her was so full of despair it could feed him for weeks!  
  
"Saying it's a secret isn't helpful." Lionel grumbled, and that priestess nodded.  
  
"Ah yes, I suppose you could see it that way." Xellos rubbed his chin, then picked another pâté up. Popping it into his mouth, he took his time in answering. "But the fact is, I want to help you in your little escapade there. And that, at least, I can tell you that its' the truth."  
  
Mostly anyway, he amended to himself.  
  
The door to the outside hall opened, and there appeared a woman who exuded strength, but also an overwhelming - and SO entertaining - sense of loneliness. She was stately and beautiful as humans saw things, and he had to admit the silver trimmed gown she wore fit her perfectly. Her entry made the three seated near Xellos stand, although only Lionel and Narie bowed.  
  
"Princess Valmatia..." the Crown Prince of Sailune intoned, "I am sorry to ask you of this, but could you leave us? We are having a private discussion."  
  
The lady seemed unimpressed, looking Philionel up and down coldly before replying. "Can I not walk about the castle at my own leisure?"  
  
"Certainly. Which is why I am politely asking for you to leave us." the prince paused, then resumed in a colder tone. "If you insist on remaining, however, I will order you out of the room."  
  
Valmatia's face tensed for a moment, anger blooming, controlled, and the loneliness deepening even more. "You do not have that authority over me, Prince. Not yet!"  
  
"When you are within the boundaries of Sailune, I have authority over all but the King of Sailune!" he stood proudly, and for a few moments this young, giant man looked the image of a unmovable king "It would not serve justice for me to use it, but if you remain, then the core of all that is just will force me to do so! Do not force me."  
  
If I didn't feel so much antipathy between them, I'd swear this was a lover's quarrel, Xellos reflected, hiding behind his easy grin.  
  
They looked at each other, gazes locked in a duel of wills, fencing with their minds. Eventually, it was Valmatia who dropped her gaze - grudgingly. "I appears there is more to you than an ugly face, Crown Prince Philionel." Was that the barest hint of a smile there? If the huge man saw it, he gave no sign.  
  
However, his voice became far mellower when he saw that he had won for the time being. "Will you leave us?" he asked politely.  
  
"I will. But I will not forget this." Even Xellos couldn't quite make out what she could mean by that, but he felt that the loneliness, for some reason, had ebbed just a little.  
  
Philionel held himself straight until his future bride - oh, won't that be an amusing marriage! - left the room. Then he sagged, muttering to himself as he kept looking at the rich wooden doors for a moment, before harrumphing about something and turning back to them. "And to think I will have to face her every single day of my life soon."  
  
He then took note of Narie's raised eyebrow, of Lionel's twitching mouth, and most of all of Xellos' very own smiling face, and flushed in embarrassment. He coughed. "Well, hum, that's enough of that. Lets get back to the topic at hand. You had something to say, Xellos. I think its time, in the name of all that is just, to say it!"  
  
Xellos couldn't really have cared less about what was just and what wasn't, but he decided that it was better to simply play the humans' game for now. "I intend to tell you. Please sit. Now...lets see. I think that your problem is that you're unsure about what to use to unlock the first of Sai Lune's magical locks. Now you have to know-"  
  
"Wait, wait." the priestess interrupted "The FIRST lock? There are more?"  
  
Oh dear. He wasn't supposed to say that just yet. Oh well, spilt milk as the humans always said. He kept grinning. "Why yes. The first I know of. The second...I only heard of once."  
  
Lionel's eyes were burning with the need for knowledge. What a pleasant fellow! "How do we open the first lock."  
  
"By opposites. Magical opposites. I read somewhere that the founder of Sailune was very fixated on that. It shows in the riddle he gave you: Blue Mire, Red Fire. What could it be? Ohh, what?"  
  
And he continued grinning, drinking the wine as realization dawned on them. Marvellous humans. He just loved them!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The woman struggled as two guards brought her to Dallomir's special chamber. It was almost as if she knew what was in store for herself. Only she didn't she was only reacting to the situation as she had been used to - and doing it more weakly than ever now. She was battered from her ordeal, physically and mentally. But she wouldn't allow herself to break. Haha. No no. Never.  
  
The fear that Berwen felt, however, couldn't be hidden. She had been hurt too often and too strongly by the devices he and that awful child-faced sorcerer had used. So she struggled as much as she could. But with her magic negated, and any physical abilities now dulled by the tortures, she was no match for anyone there, much less two armoured guards.  
  
Appealing to them wouldn't work. She'd tried it before, with no effect. Who knew what lies the mage had told about her to make them insensitive to her plight? Raging would only make her feel the desperation of her situation even more strongly than ever, so it was out of the question.  
  
Consequently, she laughed. An it was such a happy laugh, too, she thought, even if she admitted that it held a touch of something part of her mind screamed against. She ignored it, letting the laughter show her defiance, let it show them all she was still alive. She roared like a helpless hyena, until a fist crashed into her mouth, filling it with a hot liquid, which had become a companion now. She spit the blood and grinned at the glowering guard.  
  
"Ooopsie....hehehehehe...did I hit a nerve there, handsome."  
  
"Shut up, witch."  
  
"OhnononononoNONONO! Heh. Why should I stop! This is the best way to relax, you should try it!"  
  
"I said, shut up!"  
  
"Poor little guard is angry, heheheeheeeheeee-GHUK!" her laughter was cut short as she was hit again, right in the stomach this time. The pain reeled inside of her. No sense of fairness, these men. And...heheheh...no sense of humor.  
  
"I pray you don't intend to deface her too much. Your master needs her for questioning." a voice murmured, and she found herself staring through tear-filled, blinking eyes at the child-man.  
  
Dressed as he was, he looked almost like a boy trying to play sorcerer. But it was all a facade. She had seen him use his powers, and knew that they were vast. Not as vast as that little...as her friend Fezra or her damnable lover Marcus, or that monstrous Dallomir, but she knew she herself could never have taken him on in a spell fight. He was an extremely dangerous man.  
  
The guards knew it, too. One of them forced her to straighten, which she did with a wince, while the other started to apologize profusely. The child-man held up a hand irritably. "Enough. What's done is done. Bring her to the chamber."  
  
With that, he turned and walked towards a door she had entered many times - Dallomir's laboratory. Her laughter was forgotten, her fear took over her mind as she struggled. She did not plead. Never. Never plead. But she still made whimpering sounds as she was dragged along.  
  
They entered a large, high-ceilinged room. It wasn't filled with much. A table here, filled with objects, and a floor covered with runes of all kinds. No spell books were to be seen - she expected that he kept his resources elsewhere. She had even thought of the place where they might be held. But all this meant nothing as she was dragged to the centre of the room, and chained. Desperately she tried to put on a brave front. Never break. Never plead. No matter what.  
  
The guards left, and it was only then that Dallomir appeared out of the shadows of the chamber, grinning, and a triumphant gleam in his frightening eyes.  
  
"Welcome again, my dear. I trust you had a good night?" he said, and then muttered a few words. The circle in which Berwen stood flash, and she knew that a magical field was now erected around her. At the same moment, the ruby that held off her powers stopped acting, effectively returning the magic to her.   
  
It didn't make her feel better. Nonono. The fear only rose to greater heights. This had never happened. He had never let her have her powers. What did he want?  
  
He nodded as if he'd read her thoughts. "Indeed. I will soon have no fear of your magicks. It is my enemies who shall. Be grateful! You are about to participate in the renewal of Lei Magnus' legacy!"  
  
She raised her hands to touch the barrier, only to notice that her bare feet no longer felt dry, but wet. She looked down, and her eyes widened in horror. A sort of strange liquid was filling the circle. It was rising fast, reaching her ankles in seconds. She looked at the one who had done so much to her, told her so many things and twisted her reasoning so much she no longer trusted herself with a mixture of panic and hate.  
  
"YOU BASTARD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?" she screamed, pounding at the magical wall, which enclosed her. He didn't seem moved by her outburst in the slightest. Already the liquid was already at her ankles.   
  
"Calm down. It is the normal first step in the transition."  
  
"Bastard! I hate you! I hate you!"  
  
"Yes you do. But I'm not the one you hate the most. There is another. One who conspired with me, the one who wanted you out of the way."  
  
The liquid had reached her waist. Panic enveloped her. Dontbreakdontbreakneverbreak...  
  
Still she pounded. "NO! Killing me will never give you what you want!"  
  
"Fate is sometimes cruel." he said with a commiserative look. Then the triumph replaced it. "But no matter. I will soon be able to tell Fezra and Marcus if you will be a useful tool for us!"  
  
Anger burned the hatred, and she channelled her magic into her fists, pounding the barrier with unbelievable force. "NO! NO! LIAR! All a lie! All a lie!"  
  
Still the liquid mounted, reaching her shoulders. Her magic wasn't strong enough to break it in time, and already a numb feeling was starting to affect her legs. She trashed about, tears of panic streaming down her cheek. Don't break. Don't plead. Don't. Don't Don't...  
  
And then the dam broke. Her willpower, which had been weakening for so long, no longer held out in the imminence of death. "Don't! Don't kill me! Don't kill me! No! Noooo! CURSE YOU DALLOMIR!!"  
  
The liquid reached her mouth. She coughed and spit the foul-tasting substance. The last thing she heard before she was submerged was Dallomir saying. "You shall be the first human chimera in nine hundred years! Rejoice!"  
  
Then she was drowning. Trashing in the liquid, she held out as long as she could. Her lungs, however, weren't on fire but rather icy, unresponsive. She mentally refused to yield, but her body would no longer answer to her commands. With a final jerk, her last breath was expelled, and her mind seemed to darken.  
  
But she didn't die. Instead she didn't live. Her mind seemed to freeze into eternity on this stray thought: and what if Fezra HAD betrayed me?  
  
And then she was unable to feel anything, or to think beyond that last thought. It was then that Berwen, as a person, stopped existing. She didn't notice anything around her anymore.  
  
She didn't understand it when Dallomir looked at his fellow sorcerer and said. "Good. The solution worked. Now begin the fusing at once."  
  
She didn't mind. She didn't feel anything.  
  
Until indescribable pain began to wrench her very soul from her.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
Halsteroy Beans: A bean grown in the southern regions of Sailune, prized for its very rich flavour and its medicinal properties. Widely traded with Kalmaart, Elmekia and Zefielia. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

"It is said that over eighty thousand people died fighting in the Elmekian-Lumerian War. I personally think it was a little less. However, it does not negate the fact that it was the most bloody, most long-lasting war there had been between two countries since the great Elzu Empire collapsed in the Sundering War of 702-706. It certainly distraught many of the sensibilities in those of noble blood, despaired those of clergy and sorcery, and filled the common folk with fear.  
  
Yet, how could we know that this terrible war which ended a nation and rattled so many social elements was a simple prelude to something much more dire?"  
  
-Lionel Greysword's memoirs  
  
"There is no Lumeria. There is only a region which believed could break away from the Empire. Today, fair gentles and ladies, we set things right! Today we make Elmekia whole once more!"  
  
-Emperor Ferlin the Second, speech to Elmekian nobles  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
Wine flowed in Castle Elmekun's immense feasthall.   
  
No, Duke Salemir Elmekun decided, it wasn't just the wine, although the vintages were filling his senses. Reds, whites, roses, all the sorts were there. All of the bottles were of excellent stock, of excellent years. His brother would never have suffered anything less than perfection for any event he would attend himself, especially in their ancestral home.  
  
"His Lordship Salemir Elin Sar Elmekun, Duke of the Westlands!" the guard at the door called, and all of the feasting table were immediately silent as he made his way through them. He saw envy in many eyes, and fear in many more others. He understood it. After all, wasn't he the emperor's beloved brother, and the Duke of some of the richest lands in the Empire? They were probably most right in fearing him.  
  
The emperor himself, of course, came to greet him, all expensive clothes, swathed in the finest perfumes and a mountain of gold and jewels, as well as the ruby-encrusted crown, which had served as the Emperor's power for centuries on his head. His hand was heartily extended as he came up. "Salemir! By the Gods, its good to see you!"  
  
"And I you, Highness." he said, and meant it.  
  
"Fah! No titles between the two of us, never! Come! I am certain you are starved after the long road you had! Come, follow me and we can feast!" he turned to the staring nobles "You may all continue."  
  
Weathering the strong clap Ferlin gave him, the duke let himself be steered towards a table, which was raised over all others, passing dogs, which fed over the scraps of food the people threw down. Looking at the way some of the exalted guests ate; Salemir briefly wondered which was the most piggish - man or dog.  
  
Seven chairs occupied the imperial table, laid out in white linen and covered with enough food to feed forty strong men, the centremost being the tallest as a matter of course. He recognized the five who sat with him and his brother. To the right of the emperor's chair sat the empress, wearing more jewels than the emperor himself, and looking as beautiful as ever. She gave him a nod that gave the appearance of someone in full possession of herself. Of course all of that beauty was nothing but appearance. Nahani - was that her name? - was in fact so scatter-brained, so utterly empty-headed that he actually never cared for her at all.   
  
The other four were the king's children - three boys - with the oldest actually a young man now - and one of them a girl. Of the four she was the only one who had a brain. He sat next to her with mixed feelings. He was glad that he wouldn't have to prattle with the superficial fools the emperor's sons were turning out to be, least of all the supremely arrogant heir to the throne. But yet he didn't like her presence all that much either. This woman was bloodthirsty, more than Salemir's own father had been at his worst moments, and lacking the mental focus the dead emperor had.  
  
She was supremely different. And supremely dangerous. It was thus with some discomfort that he waited to be served by the servant. His glass was filled with a liquid he immediately recognized but that few others outside conaisseurs, wealthy people and royalty could. A relatively sombre liquid, more violet than red, and with the scent of wildflowers.  
  
He looked at his brother. "Elven wine?"  
  
"Indeed. Mipross may have disappeared from the face of our world, yet still some elven merchants come and sell wares at times. And at steep prices too, as I'm quite sure you know."  
  
He did. A bottle of elven wine was worth ten bottles of excellent human ones - and was worth every gold piece. He drank a bit of it; let the subtle taste flow through him.  
  
"Uncle, I have heard that Lumeris is close to falling to our forces."  
  
Zerfei. He knew it. The young princess couldn't do anything else but talk of battles and warfare. She was tedious that way, but also unavoidable. "Yes, the Lumerians have lost the war. We control three quarters of their territory proper, with most of their mines and places of production. Yet the King of Lumeria has stubbornly refused my last attempt at surrendering."  
  
His brother picked up a large piece of red deer meat with a knife. "Excellent my brother. I knew that I could count on you." he bit into the meat, tearing a large chunk of it, chewing and swallowing before returning to the conversation. "I intend to return with you, to see the end of this arrogant little Kingdom with my own eyes.  
  
He set his lips at that. He could understand his emperor's wish. They were doing what their father had prepared, and what every other emperor had dreamed of since Lumeria traitorously chose to abandon the empire. But his brother was also forgetting that he was the leader of Elmekia, and that he couldn't allow such wishes to cloud his judgement to his other duties. Still he couldn't say it.  
  
Ferlin, however, shrewdly guessed his thoughts. "I know, Salemir. I know how dangerous this might be for me. Yet I promised father that I would see Lumeris fall, and I intend to honor that vow."  
  
"I understand that, Your Highness." he said. "I too promised certain things to father. One of which was that I would not let you plunge into foolhardy battle."  
  
"Ahhh. That explains why you always work so hard to push me out of the way everytime there is even a little action!" The emperor chortled. Salemir shifted in discomfort, and the chortle faded, although the smile remained. "Calm yourself, my dear brother. You shall keep your vow to father as well. I will simply go to observe the city's fall."  
  
"If that is the case, may I ask to come with you, father?"  
  
This innocent-looking sentence had the honour of acquiring the Salemir's attention, not to mention that of the emperor and his wife. The princess sat there as if her remark was as normal as could be. It didn't surprise the duke, however, and from the way his brother sighed, it came as no surprise to the girl's father.  
  
"No, Zerfei."  
  
"Father-"  
  
"I said no." he repeated, his voice now as commanding as Salemir had ever seen it "I have no intention of discussing it. You are not one who should be anywhere near a battlefield, and as long as I have breath you shall not! Am I making myself very clear, daughter?"  
  
For a moment it seemed as if Ferlin would have to explain things further, for she looked about to speak, her eyebrows crossed in a terrible frown. Then she stopped, as if a new thought had struck her, smoothing her face and replacing the bitter anger with a certain show of deference that didn't lack a certain stiffness.  
  
"I understand, father. I accept your decision."  
  
Salemir exchanged a look with his brother. That had been too easy. Of all of the emperor's children, Zerfei was the most intelligent and the most stubborn. She had an idea inside her pretty head, and that alone didn't bode well. He missed Valmatia all the more. Even more intelligent than her cousin, she could have pierced her plans easily where they would have a hard time of it.  
  
"Talking about moving, my brother." he said, shaking his discomfort "I will soon have to move myself - to my daughter's wedding. With your permission, I will do so as soon as Lumeris falls."  
  
"You do not have to say more, Salemir. Your request is of course granted."  
  
Salemir nodded his thanks, returning to the meal in front of him. He ate sparsely, his mind full of things to come. A city would fall, by his command. But he had been raised and bred to carry battle for his elder brother and make such decisions. It didn't concern him much, although he would have to make certain Zerfei wouldn't start hatching some bloodthirsty scheme.  
  
"Thinking about me, Uncle?" he heard, and turned to see the girl smiling up at him. So innocently. So falsely. She was so dangerous, so very dangerous. "I drink to your health."  
  
And that sentence, for some reason he couldn't fathom, truly put him on edge, sending signals to his old instincts.  
  
He was suddenly certain that he would have to watch that young one very closely from now on.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Philionel truly hope that that strange priest - Xellos, was it? He always seemed to forget the man's name, even his face - was right. They had little time left for mistakes if they ever hoped to not only save Berwen, but also manage to stop the sorcerers who captured her to use the Lost Lores.  
  
Lost Lores...that very name made any cultured man or woman shiver. They were spells and artefacts used long ago in the War of Resurrection, many of said items having been handed down by the Dragon Kings, and some others crafted by the long-gone elven Spellsmiths. A few had even been crafted by humans, most from the hand of the three most powerful of that time - Lei Magnus, Oerlus the Silent and Falana of the Five Winds. They had been used mostly against the Mazoku, and then also against Lei Magnus and then both as he was found to be the receptacle for one of Shabranigdu's seven pieces.  
  
The war itself had been relatively short - three years according to estimates. But the toll had been high, shattering the power of the ancient elves forever, weakening the dragons to a state they hadn't recovered until today, and leaving humans nearly extinct, surrounded by monsters created in the turmoil of the war. Yet, humans had survived, and managed to scrounge enough so that one thousand years later, its power could be said the approach the Elves', if not exactly.  
  
It took two centuries for humans to rebuild a true semblance of civilization, struggling under monstrous attacks, ravages from tyrants and warlords, with only a few small city-states managing to live up to the old morals the elves had dictated and overseen for three thousand years prior to the War of Resurrection. It had taken even longer for mankind to grow back to what it was, and then to grow beyond. Yet, this might never have happened, if the heroes who survived the war hadn't wisely decided to seal most of the Lost Lores away. Humans had certainly been the better for it.  
  
He had no intention of letting this prosperity fouled by the madness of a few power-maddened spellcasters, not while he lived, by Ceipheed! Justice commanded he acted, and acted quickly.  
  
And now everything was in the hands of a possibility they were about to try. Here. In the chamber his distant ancestor had ordered built and endowed with his powers, far beneath the main halls of Sailune's royal castle.  
  
"This had better work." he mused to himself. He hadn't meant for his softly-voiced comment to be heard, but the acoustics in the place carried his voice to all corners. The three with him looked at him. And, as usual, Lionel answered as if the question had been asked solely for his benefit.  
  
"There is no reason to think that it will not, Prince Philionel." he said "Given the strong magic I sense here, I think there's a certain logic in using magic to, as they say, unlock the door." He walked to one of the pedestals, the one with the silver sculpture, as Narie strolled to the bronze one.  
  
"Besides," Xellos cheerfully reminded them "There's no better plan on what to do here!" Irritating, but it was the truth, and they all knew it.   
  
"Lets get started then." Lionel announced, his hand hovering over the cup-like formation before the statue. "Ready, Narie?"  
  
"Yes, I think so."  
  
"Let's do it then." his hand began to glow bright red. "FIRE BURST!" he said, and the small ball of fire impacted on the silver cup, At once a red glow formed there as well, growing brighter. "Now, Narie!"  
  
"AQUA BURST!" The priestess shouted, and a watery mass conjured from the moisture in the air also lanced out and struck the intended place. The glow, a blue one, also intensified. Bother reached a crescendo, and sudden a burst of blue light shot from it a mere instant after a red one did from the other side.  
  
"Leaving the immediate vicinity of the beams might be a good idea!" Xellos said even as the two backed away precipitously. The beams started to angle, raking on the ceiling, until both hit a point above, hitting something unseen. At once there was a terrific flash, and energy crackled in it, humming, powerful.  
  
"GET AWAY FROM THAT SPOT!" Lionel shouted, and slammed into Naries, bringing her down as she screamed in fright. Philionel also ducked, but saw that Xellos hadn't moved. Instead the priest seemed fascinated by the rippling forces they had unleashed, his smile actually more bemused than amused. Cursing under his breath, his dedication to justice strongly on his mind, Phil rose once again, and gripped the priest by the shoulder, meaning to tear him away.   
  
But at that time the flashing energy stopped, the light, which was so blinding dimmed, and all became normal. Except for one element. Right were the immense light had struck, stood a man. Dressed in archaic priest robes, of average height and slighter-than average build, a man looked out with brown eyes shining with command and wisdom, wisdom made all the stronger by the grey which ran in his average-length brown air. He wasn't exactly what one would have called handsome, yet there was something about this man that told that, wherever he walked, eyes followed, be they male or female.  
  
The strange man gave a slight smile, ripe with hidden secrets and yet very winning, and spoke in the voice of one used to being listened to. "Welcome, friends, to my Vault. Long has such a moment been prepared for."  
  
Lionel and Narie came to their feet - actually Narie nearly threw the man on top of her off in her haste. They, like Phil and Xellos, stared. And then Xellos laughed merrily. Like it was all a good joke he had just understood. The man frowned slightly as a look of recognition flared in the intelligent eyes.  
  
"Ahhh, rich! Incredible! I AM impressed!" Xellos chuckled "I never thought you'd actually manage this, but you were always unnaturally powerful when it came to life and death."  
  
The man nodded. "I needed assurance, as you well know I did." was the simple reply. "It has been a long time, Xellos."  
  
That made Phil, who had stood flaggerbasted by the whole exchange, jump. "Wait! Wait! You know Xellos. You're accent is archaic, and your clothes..." he took a deep breath as a possibility came to him "Who...who are you?"  
  
The man seemed to reflect on that. "My name was once Saiel Kedgara...but I was known most of my life as Sai Lune."  
  
"Sai Lune!" He gasped, and he heard similar noises from his friends. He wanted to shout, call this man an impostor, and tell the deluded man that Sai Lune had died nine and a half centuries before. But he found that he couldn't. Not because of the man's strange appearance, or the charisma he felt coming in waves. No. That he could handle, he could explain it. He could have even declared it an hoax, but it wasn't. There was something he felt, deep within his soul, that family was before him. A family removed by dozens of generations, but family nonetheless.  
  
Thus, for the first time in his life, Philionel Di Sailune, Heir to the Throne of the continent's most powerful Kingdom, bent his knee to someone and felt that it was proper, deserved and necessary all in one. "Sai Lune, father of Sailune. I welcome you to your home."  
  
This show of deference, accentuated by Lionel and Narie also kneeling, seemed to put the man ill at ease. "Please friends," the legendary man said in a voice which spoke of discomfort. "Do not...do not kneel to me. My time as a ruler was never one I liked. I was never a king, though I held the title for some years, but a priest. Now rise, I beg you. Our time is short."  
  
Philionel rose uncertainly, not knowing and not caring what the other did at that time. "I...Sir...Your Holiness...I...I am Philionel Di Sailune, Crown Prince of Sailune. It is the highest honour to meet you face to face." then he stopped as the priest's words hit him. "Our time is short? Then you have not returned?"  
  
A slow, firm shake of the head was the answer. "The magic I used only allows me a very short time upon this plane. I do not begrudge it. I have lived my time, and now have moved beyond this life."  
  
Narie spoke up at once. "Then, Holiness, please hear us! The artefacts you sealed are in the wrong hands, and we need guidance to stop the evil.  
  
Sai Lune's look was grim. "That is ill tidings. But so be it. You came with good intentions, and so I will help you. Come! Tell me of this evil, so that I might render what assistance I can!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Maybe it was the form shifting in pain as the spells of old were heaped upon it. Maybe it was the fact that although they couldn't hear the screams or, for that matter, truly see the person inside the filled energy tube, that they could easily interpret every twitch, everything about the body language. Maybe it was the simple fact of being there, helping the process along and not helping one bit. Maybe it was something else altogether. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.  
  
But despite it all, Mellinius truly felt sick as he helped the transformation of a human into a full chimera.  
  
"This is what we have been looking for, my friends. This is what we need to achieve our goals!" Dallomir crowed, eyes bright as he looked upon the writhing female he was using as an experiment with what could only be termed madness.  
  
Our goals? Mellinius reflected bitterly. The goal was supposed to have been to find ways to find a spell or an artefact that would assure Lumeria's victory, or at least even the odds. But now, after all that time, Dallomir had done nothing. Hadn't cared one bit about the realm he had sworn to serve to the best of his abilities. And the end results were clear. The empire had crushed everything in its path, smashing forts and strongholds, looting and pillaging at will. The kingdom had never stood a chance faced with the well-oiled juggernaught it had faced, cut off by imperial scheming from the other countries which had power enough to make Elmekia stop its invasion.  
  
Even now, he had learned to his dismay, the capital was under siege. In mere days, it would fall, the royal family would be killed or exiled, and Lumeria would be no more. He could have wept. But times weren't come for weeping like a child. Dallomir had been rendered utterly insane by the power he had found, and had chosen to create an abomination from the War of Resurrection. Someone had to stop him.  
  
One way or another, Mellinus would be there if an opportunity came.  
  
"I have a question, if I may." he asked, tearing his eyes away from the victim in the magical solution, not wishing to read what he was supposed to read. Dallomir shifted his bright gaze to him and nodded quickly. "I have heard...I read some years ago that Lei Magnus was able to create chimeras from humans much more simply than this. Why are we using this method?"  
  
Dallomir's insane face lighted. "A good question. You are quite right. Lei Magnus created two kinds of chimeras. The first, and simplest, were an amalgam, a fusing of a stone golem's skin and natural endurance with the powers of a bluestorm Mazoku. They were simple enough to create given the right spell - which I have found amongst other things." he pointed to the magical prison and torture chamber "This, however, is more than that. This was his masterpiece. Fusing a spellcaster with the power of a red drake, a more powerful Mazoku, and the strength and endurance and skin of a steel golem. Even more so, this spell involves the control of the chimera's mind. She will be completely under my control."  
  
If only the man could know how little Mellinius cared to see a being of such potential power come under control of anyone. Jomekin, who sniffed and nearly tossed his own incantation down, interrupted his brooding.  
  
"I'm all for doing some experimentation, Dallomir. But that doesn't serve my purpose. Where is MY payment! Where is the spell which can help me look like a man, and not like a child with an adult voice?"  
  
"Patience, my friend."  
  
"NO. Enough of patience. My patience is nonexistent and will remain so until I have a satisfactory answer!"  
  
Dallomir looked as if he might frown, then sighed as if the demand was only a small - albeit annoying - problem. "As you wish. I have found useful leads into possible cures in the scrolls. The faster we achieve this, the faster we can tackle this problem, wouldn't you say?"  
  
What truly surprised Mellinius was that Jomekin swallowed this whole? No hesitation, no suspicion from a man who had built his life upon distrust, deceit and suspicion. But then again the man-child has always been so fixated on his cure that he sometimes appeared to forget everything else in the hopes he had. Presently, he briefly considered Dallomir's words, and then nodded.  
  
"Then we shouldn't waste anymore time." he stated.  
  
Dallomir actually sighed, but the strange light remained in his eyes. "Haste makes waste as they say. But you're right. Let us stop dawdling. Each of you take place in your circle of power. Let the ceremony begin!"  
  
It was all Mellinus could do not to drag his feet as he walked to one of the runic circles, which made a great triangle around the captive. His mind was whirling. Surely there was something he could do. There must be! But what? Sullenly, lost, sick, he nonetheless took his place as instructed.  
  
Almost at once, almost shaking in glee, Dallomir began, reciting his part.  
  
Upon you the three terms, bestowed will be;  
On your human form of old, the last time ever see;  
  
First comes the Golem, steel for your bone;  
Upon your old flesh, strength it will hone;  
Take thee the first term, on your fallen throne;  
Bid farewell to the flesh, as I so condone!  
  
The effect was immediate the trapped female spellcaster began to trash, as if burned from every side. The essence was called upon, the power of the steel golem. There had to be a way to stop this, but he couldn't see it, he just couldn't see it! Curse him for allowing things to progress this far! He HAD to do something, but what?  
  
Jomekin was now spreading his words, looking at his enchantment, concentrating. The golem had been called, now it was time to invoke the power of the Mazoku. The child man raised his hand, his eyes closed, as he summoned his willpower.  
  
Second comes the Mazoku, power beyond your own;  
Upon your old soul, magic shall it be known;  
Take thee the second term, on your form prone;  
Bid farewell to human soul, as I so condone!  
  
This was impossible. How could such a thing be happening?!? What had he done? Had he been so blind that he hadn't known of this madness? Hadn't he even considered that this would happen?  
  
And a voice answered for him, a small voice deep inside his own soul, one he had never wanted to hear, but now could only surrender to: Yes, you knew. You knew that Dallomir had lost his mind; you knew he had ever since his demanding wife died. You knew that Jomekin was so desperate for a cure that he'd follow Dallomir no matter what, no matter his own dangerous cunning and abilities. Don't delude yourself - you knew! You knew something terrible might happen, and yet you did nothing!  
  
No! No...  
  
Yes. You are a coward, Mellinius. And because of this you are as responsible of this as your master!  
  
He nodded in his mind, closing his eyes in the real world. All of it was right. Now his blindness exploded into light, and he grope about for a solution that didn't exist. Didn't exist? Maybe...maybe...  
  
"Mellinius!" Dallomir thundered, "Invoke your own spell. Invoke the last part of the terms! NOW!"  
  
Seizing upon a faint hope, not knowing what effect it would have, Mellinius attempted to atone by utilizing a cowardly tactic: he changed the wording.  
  
Third comes the Mind, forget memories flown;  
Upon your old ways, shatter mind be lone;  
Take thee the third term, on the spirit's groan;  
Bid farewell to whole mind, as I so condone!  
  
Ceipheed, forgive me, he thought as he finished and sealed the pact.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Hallia couldn't keep the amusement from showing in her face as she saw Marcus struggle to keep his balance against Loerik's onslaught. The sorcerer had been the one to suggest that, if magic failed, they should know how to handle a blade adequately, and had quickly drafted the two swordsmen in the group as instructors. Both had grumbled intensively, Zasthla promising nothing to those who lagged behind her training schedule. Loerik had only harrumphed extensively before giving his assent.  
  
And so they had bought a sword for Hallia, and the training had started. Or, rather, the bruising had started, for the trio had found itself in the hands of two hard taskmasters. Of the three, Fezra appeared to be the most able in swordsmanship, but she was overshadowed by Zashtla's skills, which in turn were eclipsed by Loerik's. The two had, after an hour of practice, decided that Fezra and Marcus were very basic while Hallia knew nothing at all, and had set to work based on that.  
  
Hallia had never used a sword. Her training had been magical, and the temple she had been in didn't approve of priestesses using hand-held weapons. Besides, she remembered being taught, she wasn't supposed to go into combat - more experienced priests and soldiers would always surround her. Her given task was to heal, not to fight the battles themselves.   
  
How far these days seemed, before they had been shattered by a savage attack, which had killed all of her friends save one.  
  
Marcus was an extremely talented and powerful wizard, but only a fair swordsman. He was fighting with all of his might, straining to add speed to thrusts and parries, but his adversary's blade always met his with a grace he couldn't duplicate. Loerik, for his part, looked bored. Not surprising really. Descended from the mythical Gabriev himself, and direct descendant of the legendary Swordsman of Light, he had told her he had been trained for fighting ever since he could walk.  
  
"Is that what makes you so strong? I always imagined the Sword of Light was what gave you your power." she had asked once, long ago it seemed. He had taken the question seriously, taking his time before answering.  
  
"That's a part of it, I guess." he'd answered, "But, see, its also because we learn how to fight as little kids. When I was ten, I probably already knew more tricks than an ordinary soldier did. By fifteen, I could outfight any elf warrior save the royal guards themselves. Sure, the power comes from the sword, but it also comes from...err...tradition I guess."  
  
That had been the end of that. The man wasn't the brightest star in the sky, and mostly kept to himself, but she had found his answer intriguing. It had taken the frightening duel with crazed Kalarus to make her realize how real what he had said had been. Gabrievs were powerful warriors. And dangerous ones.  
  
"Yieegk!"  
  
The rather inarticulate cry announced the end of the spar as Marcus' sword flew out of his hand, the momentum carrying the sorcerer backward. The blade hit the ground at the same time as the man's behind did. Before another move might be made, a very casual Loerik held Marcus at sword point.  
  
"Better than before, Marcus." he said "But you got to remember that slashing isn't always the best way to fight an opponent. You have good attacks, but they're predictable to a trained warrior." he held out his hand, and the other man grudgingly let the other help him to his feet. Beside Hallia, Fezra yawned and stretched while Zasthla looked on. Of them all, she was the least interested in these sessions.  
  
"Okay. Nice match, even if we all knew whom the winner would be!" she announced.  
  
"You lost your own sparring against me today." Zasthla reminded her magic-wielding friend. A negligent wave was the answer she received.  
  
"Picky, picky. But I guess we do need it here, being what, three days from that crazy bastard's lair? As far as I'm concerned, every mean that'll allow us to rescue Berwen is top in my list, but I'm getting a little winded. How 'bout just calling it a day?"  
  
Surprisingly, the swordswoman nodded, a miracle given the last days in which she had been adamant for more and more training. "I think we can go along with that. How about it, Loerik?"  
  
"No problem here. I'm getting hungry. Lets fix up lunch, why don't we? Whose turn is it?"  
  
Marcus groaned. "That would be me. Oh well, at least I can make the stew without adding far too much spices like SOME sorceresses I could name."  
  
"I most certainly do NOT put too much spice in my stew. It perfect!" the danger in Fezra's tone, which usually made people back off and whimper, always seemed lost on the one on the receiving end of it.  
  
"Perfect to lose all sense of taste, you mean." he deadpanned.  
  
"What? Ohh, you're asking for it, you arrogant piece of-"  
  
The sharp but good-natured bickering continued, and Zashtla winked at her before following after the two. They were a queer duo - always bickering about something, but it seemed to be one of the things that attracted them to one another as well.  
  
"Think we'll have edible food after that?" Loerik said when he came near her. Dressed as he was in only his breeches and boots, he cut an impressive sight, with a lean but impressive musculature, which only added to the handsome face he sported. Most women, she knew, wouldn't be able to resist the sight, and she found herself in the same situation. Damn the man!  
  
"What? Err, yeah, heh, yeah we should if they, you know..." she trailed off, fully knowing how foolish she sounded. She felt her face grow hot. Hot! Was she blushing? She hoped not. She didn't want to. Fumbling against her own sudden nervousness, she risked a look at the swordsman's face, only to find him looking in the direction the others had trailed off to, a distinctive look of hesitation.  
  
Suddenly she laughed, the ridicule of the entire situation getting to her. The man shot her a befuddled, confused look, probably wondering whether she'd lost her head a bit, and she couldn't really blame him. It was simply too funny! She had thought they'd been past that point since the battle against Kalarus' mercenaries, but obviously she still felt like an apprentice at her first lesson every time she was alone with Loerik.   
  
"Look at us!" she finally exclaimed when she could speak. "You'd think we're some little kids wondering if we can steal some candy!"  
  
He couldn't help but grin at the vivid image she gave. "I guess we do look like that right now. Lucky Fezra isn't here to see it, we'd never hear the end of it!"  
  
Hallia sighed. At the same time, it would be a boon to have Fezra ribbing them - the sorceress was less and less like herself, no matter how she tried to continue as if nothing was wrong. They all knew that she was terribly worried about Berwen. To be truthful, she was the only one who probably was. Berwen had mostly kept to herself, so that she stood outside the strengthening bonds of friendship. Fezra, Loerik, Marcus, Zashtla and herself made the core, a core she could have been a part of. Instead of that others, like Philionel and even poor Narie had become more part of the group than she ever did. They wanted to rescue her, right. But unlike Fezra, they didn't feel attachment to that task.  
  
Her thoughts put her into such a brooding mood that her next actions came without warning. She put her arms around Loerik and hugged him. An instant of hesitation followed as the swordsman reeled a bit, but soon she found his arms hugging her back, fiercely protective. She pressed herself more strongly against him.  
  
"Loerik..." she swallowed, this was less easy than she'd thought it would be. But she had to ask. "Do you have any...any experience?" It should have sent him into a perplexing round of questions, which she feared, but instead he seemed to understand the context immediately.  
  
"No." he told her solemnly "I wasn't...interested...in...that sort of...no, I'm not."  
  
She felt relieved. At least they'd start on the same footing, without one having to teach the other to catch up. The image was funny too, and she almost giggled, but nervousness and burning want prevented it. "Then...then kiss me. And this time, I don't want you to let me go. I want it and so do you."  
  
Her fear suddenly evaporated as he kissed her, and as their exchange became more and more passionate, a thought came to her, unbidden: Yes. This is the one. This is the one I want to remain with for the rest of my life.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Sai Lune took his time in considering what had been said, and Xellos couldn't help but remember the days when they had met so long ago. More than once, actually. He could remember these instances well, even now after such a long time...  
  
The first time had been during a battle the Mazoku had had against a force of humans and Elves. He had fought off and killed many of both races, only to find himself repulsed by the high-level White Magic spells of one human. It had been a distressing and irritating event - the first time he had been thwarted by any race. He had the power to annihilate a legion of dragon warriors - and had done so more than once, but his powers were dampened, cut off by spells no human should have been able to call upon. It seemed like the priest was able to call on Ceipheed's very essence at times.  
  
Other clashes had followed, but as they wore on, he became more interested in the meeting itself than in the combat value. He stopped trying very hard, and instead focused himself on understanding humans as well as he could. Sai Lune had been a prime subject.  
  
So he had fought what he was ordered to fight, but for the rest remained in the sidelines, watching the formation of the Triad, of its narrowly-successful victories, until Shabranigdu's rebirth and the final battle that his race had lost because of the suicidal powers the Water Dragon King had used against them.  
  
He had followed the priest as he led a large cluster of human survivors, and had visited him. Ah, how the time flew. He had seen this interesting race, the humans, rise faster than he would have imagined, however. Primitive a thousand years ago, they were now nearly on par with elven civilization, a feat which should have taken at least a millennia more.  
  
"You concerns are genuine." the legendary priest stated at last "The spells we sealed below the elven ruins contained information on transmutation and the making of chimeras, as well as artefacts which could enhance magical powers."  
  
Philionel grimaced, something, which made his displeasing face actually look fearsome. "I've noticed that very personally. But since you're the guardian of this cache so to speak, could you have something which might help us fight them on more...equal grounds?"  
  
Sai Lune pondered this, and Xellos retained a smirk as he cheerfully answered. "By the way, the history books say that you chose this place to found your village because of a divine vision. What's the real reason?" he knew it, he didn't need to ask it, but he so loved the irritation and utter confusion which came his way! So invigorating. The only thing, which came from the priest, however, was puzzlement.   
  
"Well, that's easy enough to explain: my wife was heavy with our first child, and there were many tired people in the caravan. I looked for the first place that seemed rather clear of monsters, with abundance of game and water and building materials, found this place and settled! It was as simple as that. Need drives people to new heights, and there was great need."  
  
If only the man could realize how he'd just shattered what had been seen as a rock-solid fact in the history of the kingdom. He knew for a fact that the historians had exaggerated many of Sai Lune's actions. There were, of course, some actions - his acts during the War of Resurrection, the way he had maintained morale and hope the first hard years after his settlement had been founded - which came very close to the truth. Xellos knew he had been truly remarquable as far as humans saw things. But it was fun to see the man confronted to legends of his time.  
  
Philionel appeared quite nonplussed by the whole event, but recovered with a cough. "Err, yes, fascinating Your Holiness. But about the magic we might use?"  
  
"Yes. Quite. You did well in coming here. As you know, protection spells are those in which priests are the strongest, aside from those of healing and purification. During my days in the Mazoku War...um...your War of Resurrection...Several devices were bestowed to us by what remained of Ceipheed. They could protect us from most magics, including any forbidden spells."  
  
"That's exactly what we'd need!" Lionel exclaimed suddenly "Could you give them to us, Holiness?"  
  
Sai Lune flinched at the last word. Xellos smiled. Late in his life, Sai Lune had led the remnants of the priestly orders and had been given this surname as a sign of reverence. The Mazoku knew he had always hated the term. "Patience, friend, patience!" he said jovially "No need to get excited! I don't think you know how peculiar artefacts like those are."  
  
The legendary priest nodded. "Yes. These devices can't be used by anybody. It needs a person of great magical power to link with it. Not only that, but aside from power the will must be decent, or Ceipheed's holiness will reject it. I had the power and the will necessary, and so did a few others. Do you know any who might have both and so wield these holy items?"  
  
They stopped, considering. From Lionel's expression, one couldn't tell the frustration the man felt, but Phil's face only showed his worry. The answer, however, came from the broken-spirited Narie, who stepped forward with the air of someone who wasn't broken at all.  
  
"We have two friends who, I'm certain, will be able to use your items, Your Holiness. They are good people, and powerful sorcerers both." she said.  
  
"Then so be it."  
  
At once Sai Lune stretched out both hands, palms upward, and frowned as he gathered power one last time on the material plane. Xellos could easily feel the energies gather, powerful energies that a normal human could never have gathered so quickly, yet which barely strained the man. Power crackled from his hands, coalescing until a dual flash emanated. The priest presented what he had called from a vault Xellos presumed only he could access and nodded in remembrance.  
  
It looked like two silver armlet, with the image of the flare dragon carved exquisitely upon it. No dragon, elf or man could ever match that perfection, that being formed from the power of the only one save the Mother of All Things who could defeat the Darklord of the Mazoku, Shabranigdu. He had to strengthen himself not to hiss in dismay at the sheer amount of white magic he felt concentrated in these objects.  
  
"Have your friends put one each." the priest explained "And recite these words while concentrating their will: Guardian of The Light, Flare Dragon of the Infinite, lend my thy Strength and protect my humble form from harm. If they are good enough, and powerful enough, they should activate then." Sai Lune's form flashed for a moment, and he smiled sadly. "My leased time upon this plane is almost at an end. Take these, and go."  
  
After a moment, his face solemn, Philionel stepped forward and took them. Although he towered upon the other man, he looked upon the priest as if he was a massive statue. Xellos grinned as he felt discomfort seeping from the ancient hero.  
  
"Sir, it was an honor to meet you."  
  
"No, my friend. It was an honor to meet YOU. I am glad to see there are still good folk in my bloodline. Power has not corrupted you yet. Keep being like, this, and you will rule very well." His face then changed, becoming grimmer. "Could you come farther off for a moment? I have something I fear are for your hears only."  
  
The crown prince seemed surprised, but accepted. Excusing themselves, they went farther off and spoke quickly. Philionel's face changed, becoming worried and grim before he smoothed it away. Narie and Lionel only looked on in thinly veiled interest. Xellos, as for him, had other senses with which to peek.  
  
They returned, and Sai Lune's form flashed again -a stronger flash, longer this time. His time was up, it seemed. Gently, he bid them all good-bye. "I wish you luck on your journey. May you stop new horrors from coming forth."  
  
They left, respectfully, still dazed by the incredible encounter, with only Phil looking extremely preoccupied. Xellos didn't leave at once. Once the others had left, he turned to his enemy of old. "I know what you told the prince."  
  
"Yes. I felt you eavesdropping. It is in the hands of faith now." the priest sighed. "Farewell, Trickster Priest."  
  
"Farewell, Holy Priest."  
  
Sai Lune flashed a third time, and when the light vanished, so had he. Xellos smiled at this, but his smile was tinged with something he rarely allowed himself to feel: regret.  
  
_________________________________________________  
  
Mazoku War: Terms by which the War of Resurrection was designated by those who had fought it or lived during its time. 


	13. Chapter Twelve

"The Elves. I've heard the stories about them, and I can tell you that some of what's in them's true. Yeah, the Elves were the ones who first got to fight the Mazoku a thousand years back. They were the big shots of that time; they formed the Triad army and made a lot of magic stuff that gave our side a chance to fight back.  
But there's something the Elves know that they'll never admit. The Dragons fought fiercely against the Mazoku, which could fly, the elves protected with their magics. But when it came right down to it, it was Humans who fought at the front. It was Humans who shifted the tide back and forth. And it was Humans who helped the Water Dragon King when Shadra, one of the First Knights, gave her life so that they could get Ceipheed back with us for the final showdown.  
Elves. Their time was gone even then. They saw it and they've never forgiven us for it. The proof of that? Me being exiled for choosing being human."  
  
-Loerik Gabriev's scribbled notes, date unknown  
  
"Friendship is fragile. And sometimes, when it breaks, the feelings which flood the soul are searing...but so pure and clear!"  
  
Berwen, letter to Fezra  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
Agony filled her every senses, every fibre of her being. The noxious liquid, the invasive spells were seeping into her body, tearing, and remaking her. She could feel her skin pealing, blood seeping from the gashes even as the magic grew something else in its place. Her mouth hung open in a scream long extinguished, yet ever-present, as she writhed and struggled against the supplice she was forced to endure.  
  
Her failing spirit flailed about, unable to process all the pain properly, unable to raise even the slightest feel of her magic. Inside this hellish tube, so small a prison and yet seemingly infinite after so long inside it, she was cut of from that which she worked so hard to develop. That was almost as bad as the pain she felt. The process was destroying her body. But the lack of magic was destroying her mind. That...and something else also.  
  
Her senses started to drift away, shut off by the sensory overload, leaving her an empty husk with a quavering soul. Desperate, her spirit fought on, focusing the dismay and the despair, scrambling through her mind as images floated and rose within her...  
  
...Berwen opened her eyes and blinked again, wanting to be certain of what she was seeing, that this wasn't a dream but truly happening to her. It was. Before her stood Zefielia's Royal Magic Guild, the oldest in the world, and the most prestigious. It had trained legends like Nadris the Hawk, Alliadra Billowcairn, had even taught magic to Rezo the Red Priest when he came to learn Black Magic! It was, she knew from what she had heard, built upon a nexus of power, by Oerlus the Silent and Falana of the Five Winds, the most powerful sorcerers of their time...outside Lei Magnus, of course.  
  
And Berwen, twelve years old, had been accepted there as an apprentice.  
  
She looked at the structure. It was tall. A great tower from which smaller ones branched out, with smaller compounds surrounding it. Wide forested plains and magically-maintained gardens of flowers abounded, making the place even grander, almost as majestic as the Queen's Palace.  
  
So caught up was she in her good fortune, in the thought of having her thirst for knowledge finally quenched, that she didn't hear the desperate 'look out!' and was effectively bowled over by someone, rolling and falling in a tangled heap.  
  
"Ouch! Ow!!" she groaned as she fought to disentangle herself. "Couldn't you watch where you were going?!?  
  
"Heheh...sorry sorry! I just managed to get a Ray Wing right and I got carried away!" the one who had hit her said, bouncing off and landing on her feet, brushing dust. She wore the outfit of a Black Magic Apprentice, and her mischievous, brown-haired face looked ready to play a trick any moment. She scrambled to her feet as well, her body screaming but her pride kicking in. An Apprentice like herself, and no older.  
  
"Okay...I suppose." she conceded; Now wasn't the time to make enemies. "Isn't Ray Wing forbidden by the Guild Masters until we spend at least two years studying?"  
  
The newcomer flushed a bit in embarrassment. "Yeah...I guess..." then the brunette flapped her hands quickly. "Bah, who cares? You're a new Apprentice here?"  
  
"Well...yeah. Names's Berwen." she said on impulse, stretching her hand towards the other girl. It was at once caught and pumped mightily.  
  
"Awesome! Nice to meet ya, Berwen! I'm new here too! My name's Fezra. Fezra Inverse!"  
  
Fezra Inverse!  
  
Fezra Inverse...   
  
'Fezra left me here...'  
  
'No! She wouldn't do that. We've been friends for years. We trained together, we travelled together!'  
  
'No, you didn't travel with her. I didn't...you didn't...its wasn't travel. It was stalking. It was following; it was being drawn in what had become important! Always be near here, that's what you...I...wanted!'  
  
'I wanted to help her on her adventures!'  
  
'Don't be stupid! You wanted HER! But she didn't want you, and you knew it! No, she was always indulgent with you. You, the one with the middling power, the little furnace of magic next to her inferno. You were beneath her in her eyes!'  
  
'I....no...Fezra...didn't...'  
  
'And then she met HIM. That man. The man who could fight her squarely, who could match her spell-for-spell, wit-for wit. She was drawn to him at once. Drawn to him, away from you! You became unimportant...to her...to your band...you went from friend to a forgotten follower.'  
  
'....not...true...'  
  
'Isn't it?'  
  
And as much as she fought against the images, her mind played them relentlessly. All the time, when they had been talking - Hallia and Loerik, Marcus and Fezra, all of them - they had left her out, only negligently asking her opinion, if at all. Always leaving her by herself, caught up in the spirit of them team they had created without her.  
  
But she could live with that. It was other images, which played themselves now. Part of her screamed but she couldn't block them any more than she could escape the hell she was in. Fezra and Marcus talking after a fight on the way, laughing together, too close for her not to feel burning jealousy. Fezra whispering something in Marcus' ears. Marcus healing an injury Fezra had garnered through her recklessness, her injured hand gently cradled within his.  
  
Fezra giving Marcus a slight kiss on the lips while he slept. She had been so certain everyone was asleep, but Berwen hadn't. No, she had seen, and then she had felt...  
  
'Useless. She didn't need you. She didn't want you. But you...I...simply couldn't go away. So she sent us here! She threw you...I...you...ME...AWAY!!'  
  
'NO! She didn't!?!'  
  
'Didn't she? Didn't she?!? DIDN'T SHE?!?!?!?'  
  
The voice, rising through her heart and soul, reverberated through her head like an unending chorus. Didn't she. Didn't she. And there was no way Berwen could say no anymore. Her doubts, slight, implanted by hated Dallomir, had taken root. She saw that, and yet she couldn't shake herself, couldn't make herself belief her friends would come and help her.  
  
Instead, something within her told her they might come to gloat. When she was changed - a freak who could never belong anywhere again.  
  
And that thought was gaining strength each second. She howled again, a ragged cry no one could hear, would ever hear - a cry of rage, of doubt, and of loss as the light began to fade in Berwen's spirit. Had one of the sorcerers been there, in the chamber, he might have seen the flailing arms take hold of the howling face, seen the fingers dif into flesh, and, without feeling anything, tearing large gashes of weakening tissue, blood mixing with the magical solution.  
  
And in the chamber, fed by lies told by a mad sorcerer, by the well-hidden want of many years and the indescribable pain of her body, Berwen began to find a nebulous focus - that of rage. Of rage and dementia, filling her with new life even as her body began to fully change.  
  
With the rage of an animal, she began to tear at the dead skin.  
  
And underneath the gory work, metal gleamed as her body was reborn into something terrible. Something unseen in nearly a thousand years....  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Sailune's Royal Castle, inhabited by the Ruling House Sailune ever since the city's early days, could not be entered just by anyone. Guards did not permit the common man to disturb the King or any of the Court without excellent reason. Indeed, it was rare to see even an important dignitary enter into its tall and proud halls unimpeded, to come to the King unchallenged.  
  
However, there were a few who could accomplish such a feat with ease. Rezo the Red Priest was one of the few. Dressed in his usual priestly outfit, he walked the grand halls with a firm, even step, his magical staff clicking as evenly as he. He didn't have to ask the guards to pass - they did it at once, bowing. Servants scurried out of his way, although they had nothing to fear from him. And yet everything.  
  
For Rezo was the most powerful living spellcaster in the land, and that inspired both fear and respect. Ah, respect. How he had fought for this. It would be better, however, if he could truly see the respect on the face of the people, rather than having a spells translate what he never could see. Rezo's walk, however, wasn't directed toward the throne room, but towards King Fedoniel's private chambers.  
  
Knowing the way - he had first visited these chambers long before Fedoniel himself had been King. Within minutes, with guards stepping aside and servants scrambling, he was before the great doors, challenged by two of the king's personal guard. They did not step aside, but rather held their swords steady. Both were huge men in full armour, pointing equally impressive swords at him.  
  
"Who goes there? Identify yourself on be banned from this place!" one of the two huge guards shouted. It was reasonable request, and one, which Rezo answered with a calm smile.  
  
"I am Rezo Redcloak, and I would wish to speak to your King at once." he said simply.  
  
The blades wavered, yet the guards struggled to keep their composure. The answer he received was gruff, sharp. "How do we know you are who you said you are? Maybe you're just passing for the great Rezo, hoping to take the king unawares-"  
  
"This is foolish." Rezo cut into the rant "I need to speak to your king about urgent matters which concern us both. You are wasting my time. And as a wizard, I could kill the both of you easily enough." The blades wavered more "But I choose not to, which should prove that I am simply telling you the truth.  
  
Still the two held on to their duties, sweating. "I' am...awfully sorry, Your Eminence." the other guard began, words tripping over each other. "But you can't enter. The King has given us our orders.  
  
Rezo, as an answer, put his wand in front of him and spoke a few quick words, which were incomprehensible to the elite guards. They looked at him for a moment, unsure, and then dropped like so much dead weight, fast asleep. Rezo looked at them serenely.  
  
"Frightfully sorry, but these news are too important to wait." he said, and entered the king's chambers.  
  
The king was there, as he had known he would be at this hour of the day, seated in fine but simple clothes on a chair near the window closing his balcony. A small table was near him, upon which were set glasses and a crystal bottle. A slight, minty odor wafted from the concoction, and Rezo recognized the smell of Kalmaartian Mintglow Brandy, a rare, pricey brew the king was known to indulge in. The king himself was pensive, and it was to his credit that when he turned towards Rezo, he barely showed any kind of alarm, rather looking as if he had expected the visit.  
  
"Your entrances are always spectacular, Eminence." he said tiredly. He lifted his glass. "Would you care for a drink?"  
  
Rezo shook his head, but brought a chair near the king with a flick of his fingers, and sat close to the monarch. "No, thank you. I will not stay long. I wish to tell you some news that I think you might find of importance."  
  
"If it is about the Elmekian conflict, I don't see, with all respect, what you could bring. The war is all but over - Lumeria has lost."   
  
"Your country's inaction is partly to blame for this. But I digress. I am not here to tell you about the east, but rather about the Western lands."  
  
That caught Fedoniel's attention. He took a longer sip of his brandy. His eyes were filled with curiosity as he asked. "The West. I do not see much problems there. Lyzeille is prosperous. Ralteague is stable. As for Dills, I have heard that there is some trouble, but aside from this..."  
  
"I'm afraid it is quite worse than what you have heard. Dils is falling. It is on the brink of a bloody civil war."  
  
"What?!?"  
  
"And Ralteague is not nearly as stable as you may think. Trouble is brewing there as well, although I do not see what exactly. Still, it is clear that these lands will be weakened, one on very short notice."  
  
This shook the king visibly, and for good reason. Sailune held the reigns of power throughout the continent as the one with the foremost army, but the stability of the realms was a fragile thing. The power had always been maintained by the alliance of Sailune with magical Zefielia and the agrarian kingdom of Ralteague. Together, they stood against countries such as bellicose Kalmaart and served as a deterrent to power-hungry Elmekia.  
  
But with Ralteague possibly unstable, and Dils on the brink of chaos, war could develop on Sailune's other border, as warlords and armies from Kalmaart might fight over the pieces of one, and perhaps two kingdoms.  
  
"Gods!" the king cried, rising from his seat, gulping down the rest of his brandy even though it certainly burned his throat in its intensity. "With the Elmekians waging their war, the sense of unease on the populace has increased. My people do not need another war forming on their other borders."  
  
"Those were my thoughts." Rezo agreed. He both felt and saw the pensive gaze of the monarch as he said this. He knew what the question would be at once.  
  
"Why are you telling me this? What have you to gain by this information? Lyzeille is well defended, and Sairaag itself is nearly cut of from the continent. There is no danger to you. So why?"  
  
The Red Priest never answered such brusque questions unless he was faced with a man who deserved the answer. Fedoniel, fortunately, was strong at wilful, something the powerful spellcaster could empathize with. Still, he hesitated slightly before answering. "I...I suppose one could say I dreamed of a danger."  
  
The king, who had started pacing in thought, stopped. "Dreams? What kind of dreams?"  
  
Dark ones, he wanted to say. But an increasing number of his dreams were slightly unpleasant. What separated this dream from the rest? He thought that it was the sense of pure realism he had felt. Perhaps, however, it was only what warriors called a gut's instinct.  
  
"I have seen...I have seen a great darkness coming from the east, and engulfing the west. I do not know what this darkness is or when it shall happen, but I fear we may have little time to prevail over these dark events. You need to fortify Ralteague and try to calm the situation in Dils if at all possible."  
  
There was a long pause as the king looked down from his window. Under his feet lay the castle and around lay the majestic city of Sailune. He knew the King, for all his cold exterior, cared for his people - albeit didn't know them as well as his eldest did. His eldest, and his daughter's fiancé and a troubled priestess who were all preparing to leave to keep the east safe as he tried his best to prevail in the west.  
  
Finally, the king nodded. "I will send troops to help Ralteague, and help the royal house in Dils. But tell me, Eminence. What else did you see in your vision?"  
  
Rezo's face darkened. "Nothing else...nothing else except...some form of ancient evil, an impression of a travesty done long ago. And mostly...mostly, I see yellow eyes when I have these dreams."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"You want to know what I hate. But I mean really, really, really hate?" Loerik shouted to no one in particular as his sword expertly cut through yet another goo-like monster. Fezra, firing an Elmekia Lance at another group, found it oddly amusing.  
  
"No! What?" she asked.  
  
He didn't seem to think anyone would challenge him to answer, but he did readily enough. "I hate people attacking me with anything related to mud. Its stinks!" he growled.  
  
She gave a surprised laugh at his irate tone. The man was loosening up these days, certainly due in no small part to his relationship with Hallia. He wasn't walking around with a cloud over his head as he'd done so much ever since she'd known him. The comforting thought almost made her forget the dire position all of them were in.  
  
They had come close to the place they had learned to be the magical fortress which the darn mages who took Berwen were hiding in. Marcus had cautioned them to pay attention, citing that magical fortresses often had surprising defences - as if he'd needed to tell her that. But all of their prudence had given nothing, as they'd found themselves under attack by a force of humanoid shapes. Made of mud it seemed. Definitely magical.  
  
The problem was, they seemed infinite. Being in a boggy area, mud was there in ample supply, enough to field a near-endless supply of slow moving but stubborn troops. Marcus also used a mix of flare arrows and elmekia lances to destroy as many of them as he could, while Hallia drove off the magic from some of them with her white magic spells. Zashtla was fighting with them with her sword, as was Loerik - though he was evidently thinking about using the sword of light itself instead of his steel blade.  
  
Five other mudmen came at her, lumbering closer, roughly-shaped arms stretched towards her. She grinned at them, and gathered magical fire into her hand, until it formed a line of incandescent power. She focused on the approaching group. "FLARE ARROW!"  
  
As it had done a dozen times before, the magical attack screamed towards the targets, exploding in their midst and dissipating their form. Unfortunately, and as they had a dozen times before, five others formed a moment afterwards. Fezra couldn't help but blink and stare as dismay threatened to control her thoughts. She shook it off from years of facing dangerous odds, and huffed towards them.  
  
"Ah, come one! Can't you actually give us a chance to win here?!?"  
  
"I don't think that's quite in their agenda Fez!" Hallia said, pushing two mudmen away with a wind spell and running towards her. "There's no end to them, and there won't be, unless we destroy the whole place!"  
  
"You're right. And I'm beginning to think that this is the right time for that!" She growled, tired of this little game those sorcerers were putting up. Before she could decide upon a high-level spell that would suit the situation. Marcus intervened, blasting three monsters as he did.  
  
"No! We need to keep those spells as a last resort! This attack may be exactly that - a ploy to get us to expand our power!  
  
As irritating as he was, the man was right. The logical part of Fezra's mind quickly agreed, even as her family temper asked to take definite action. Spurred by the others, however, it failed to have her act rashly. "Fine! But unless we find a solution soon, we're going to be forced to used them!" she answered.  
  
"Whatever we do, lets do it fast!" Zasthla shouted from farther off, as more and more mudmen began to surround her. She was fighting them off so far, but their sheer numbers were becoming problematic. Loerik, for his part, was faring better, but had his hands full. "I'm tiring here!"  
  
Fezra thought fast. She'd seen no one in the area, sensed no magic being worked. This meant that the sorcerers - she was increasingly certain that it was they - were elsewhere. That clashed with what she knew of these spells. They had to be cast somewhere within an area the sorcerer's power could reach. Unless...memories surfaced of one time she had come across certain documents concerning the Fall of the Elcaz Empire. In these accounts, she had read of a sorcerer who had been able to animate golems at a distance. However, once he had been defeated, the investigating wizards had found an object they had found to be a...  
  
"An Orb of Focus!" she exclaimed. "Marcus, it could be an Orb of Focus that's at the core of all this!"  
  
"You're right! I've heard of these things! That's the only way we can't feel a thing, no power displacement or spell. They can cast from far away!"  
  
"LIGHT COME FORTH!!" Loerik growled, and in a flash the beam of light emerged from the hilt and took the shape of a blade. Swirling it around with unbelievable quickness, he began to cut down mudmen at a rabid rate. However, she knew it wouldn't be enough. They had to act, and act now."  
  
"Hallia, you'll have to cast a Wind Barrier!" the green-haired priestess nodded, sweat dripping down her brow. "Marcus, Loerik, Zashtla, come around us quick! DIEM WIND!!!!!" a burst of wind shoved the mudmen away, even as Marcus, having fried some others, joined them.  
  
Loerik cut through the throng quickly, his fatigue starting to be evident. His work was eased by the fact that the Sword of Light allowed him to destroy them easily. He managed to reach their spot, his shoulders sagging, glaring at the approaching packs. Zashtla, however, neither possessed Loerik's magical sword and insane skill or Marcus's powerful spells. She found herself beset, and as she raised her sword to strike once more, two mudmen pushed her from behind. She stumbled, cursing - and another bowled into her, driving her to the ground.  
  
"Damn! Hallia, the Wind Barrier!" She saw the priestess hesitate. "NOW! We can't help her right now. As she watched, Zashtla was struggling against the mudmen, but they appeared to be covering her. The barrier rose, stopping the monstrous creations. "Okay, now for the big thing! Where could that thing be?"  
  
"At the center of the attack, to make the transition easier." Marcus noted. We came under attack near those trees over there! Lets start from there." He looked at Zashtla disappearing beneath a new mound and gritted his teeth."  
  
Fezra looked around frantically. Things were going to fast, her need to save Berwen mingled with the immediate need to save Zashtla and threw her emotions into a fit. She let her eyes roam everywhere she could but couldn't focus enough to see the small object - if she was right, that is. As she, Loerik and Marcus looked around; Hallia bore the brunt of the myriad of enemies beating on the barrier. It began to lose intensity.  
  
"The spell's weakening!" she choked as if the others couldn't see it for themselves. Fezra was about to add her strength to her spell, but at that moment Loerik pointed to gnarled tree perhaps fifty feet from them.  
  
"There! There's something in that tree!" he said.  
  
There was no hesitation. Fezra and Marcus exchanged a look, and began to gather a ball of fire between their hands. "Drop the Barrier!" Marcus shouted, and it did at once, Hallia falling to her knees, Loerik stepping near her. The creations all ambled forward, but before they had a chance to do more than two steps, two fireballs arched towards the tree, and struck.  
  
The power both had put into this act had been great. The tree was obliterated. Fezra held her breath.  
  
All around them, the mudmen lurched one step more, and then began to fall apart, the solidity ripped from them. One moment, they were surrounded. Two heartbeats later, they stood in the middle of a mangled, boggy area bordered by old, rotting trees. With a mighty, desperate heave, Zashtla reappeared, gasping, while Hallia moved towards her tiredly, her swordsman lover hovering nearby.   
  
Marcus looked around the place, panting slightly. "This was is. He wants to make certain no one's coming to stop his plans."  
  
"Yeah?" she growled, "Well, he got another thing coming to him. Inverses don't stop until they get what they want." she gave a victory sign, tired, as she was herself.  
  
Yes, until she got what she wanted. And what she wanted right now was Berwen free of the nightmare she was certainly suffering in. That, and giving the three who started the whole mess a beating, which would be remembered till the dreaded Second War of Resurrection!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Valmatia would hardly admit it openly yet, but she found Sailune to be much to her liking. The King had welcomed her as he would a queen, and the nobility had been more than satisfactory in the way they had interacted with her.  
  
Sailune City itself was nothing short of amazing. Her home at Grand Falls was superb, and she had visited the imperial capital of Elmekia more than once, but Sailune simply blew both away. It wasn't larger than the empire's capital, but had an air of prosperity that she had found lacking before. The tour she had been given the days before had confirmed it. The marketplaces were large and varied, and carried goods from the four corners of the continent. They were always bustling, always filled with people, and the flow of trade often made her head dizzy.  
  
The buildings themselves were all in good repair, with they becoming larger and more beautiful as they near the Royal Castle. But that was to be expected - the nobility always hugged royalty, sometimes annoyingly so. As the Emperor's niece, she often saw this for herself. But that wasn't what had impressed her so much.  
  
She had been given a tour of nearly all the city, and that meant that Sailune City had little in the way of poverty and slums. She had noticed that beggars were fewer than in her home of the Emperor's capital, and that struck a cord within her. The Ruling House Sailune, it seemed, did not squander its great wealth only on its armies or extravagant parties, but gave a good fraction to better the lives of its people.  
  
Yes, she found Sailune to be quite a good place in the end.  
  
Now, of course, it remained to be seen if she could truly stand the ugly heir to the throne, Crown Prince Philionel.  
  
Her feelings were more mixed now than when she'd first arrived. Having expected a dull man or a fool blinded by high ideals - as many said he was behind his back - she had been surprised to find that, although the man had a fixation on justice and the ways one might directly help it, he had shown himself to be intelligent, mindful of his people. His travels had given him greater insight upon the needs of the common folk, and she had found herself baffled at some of his discoveries. He was ugly - nothing would ever change that, she was sure - but she had found a great charisma and determination, which often made one forget about looks.  
  
She had no doubts, despite the gossips, that Philionel would make a great king - greater than his own father. He had something in him that pointed to that. The problem was, in the end, if she truly wanted to become this particular King's Queen.  
  
She heard a firm knock on her door, and she rose. "Enter" she said simply, and the door opened. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.  
  
There, in the doorway, was the very man she had been debating on. Crown Prince Philionel stood with his hand on the golden handle, dressed in fine clothes that didn't negate his immense physique but lent an air of power to him. His face was serious, but respectful, and he bowed slightly.  
  
"Princess," he said, "I hope that I am not interrupting."  
  
"Not at all, My Lord," she replied, hiding her surprise. "Please come in."  
  
He did, closing the door behind him. Her heart accelerated a bit, and she controlled her reaction. Fear? No, she knew by now that Philionel was too honourable to do anything with a lady outside the boundaries of Sailunean Law. Anticipation? Yes, that was it. But of what?  
  
He looked around him a moment, before giving her a stare which, while formal, wasn't unkind. "I hope that you are satisfied with your apartments?"  
  
Was there a way to say no? She had been given chambers which made those she'd had at Grand Falls seem small. A large, well-decorated bedroom, with a dressing room, another chamber where she could in an enclosed balcony, overlooking part of the city. A room with a tub, sweet-smelling soaps and perfumes. All of this with servants ready to jump to serve her at the flick of a finger. There could be no greater comforts.  
  
But she knew he knew that well. So she simply nodded gracefully "Yes, they are quite superb, My Lord."  
  
"That is good to hear." he seemed to hesitate for a bare instant, then continued in a firm tone. "Princess Valmatia, I wish to tell you that I intend to leave soon. My friends and I have found what we came here for, and we intend to rejoin others to save another friend...and possibly much more."  
  
This threw her off somewhat. She had expected that this reckless prince would go gallivanting again, as he'd been doing when she had first come to Sailune's capital. What she hadn't expected was this - the Crown Prince telling her of his plans.   
  
"It pains me to hear this, My Lord. But why tell me?" she couldn't help but inquire, although something in her told her the answer even before he responded.  
  
"Because we will be married soon. Although it is not a choice of mine, I know you are caught in this as well. I would ask you to give me leave. If you refuse, then I will remain here, for I must."  
  
"You must."  
  
"Of course. You are my wife, and your opinions should always come first." he said with a firm, idealistic gleam in his eyes. She briefly wondered if those who thought Philionel a fool had ever seen him give such a speech, or show such determination. She herself found it endearing, as strange as it was. She never had had much love in her heart for those who didn't believe in what they said; who talked but never backed any of it with action or determination.  
  
She reflected on the matter briefly. He wanted to leave, an action, which, by itself, would drive the king, crazy. It then stood to reason that he had not asked his father at all, and did not intend to. On the one hand, it wouldn't do if the King of Sailune learned that she had told his son to go without advising him first. However, the prince was the one she would marry, and going to the king would be a betrayal as well, a greater one, which might damage whatever, they might build before they began building it.  
  
She hated when something wasn't simple. She hated making decision when she wasn't quite certain which side was right. However, Philionel didn't look like he was about to give her much time to think things through. Her mind whirled fiercely.  
  
"You are not asking me an easy thing." she said.  
  
"I am aware of that." he answered simply, without offering anything else. Damn the man!  
  
Becoming Queen of Sailune suited her, she had to admit that much - although it might be a while, since King Fedoniel appeared to be in fine health and nothing seemed to be about to change that. However, she refused to rule for no other reason than because she wanted to. She wanted to rule for a reason, and more than anything else she wanted an ambiance in which she could feel truth. She wouldn't begin to lie to herself - or to him.  
  
"When I came here, I thought you were an ugly fool. I did not want to marry you, to have to spend years and years with you." he flinched slightly, but she moved on. "I am not quite certain of myself yet. It will take time, but I have felt that you were different than what the gossip told me of you."  
  
He seemed to stiffen at first, and then relaxed just slightly, his massive frame washing away some of the imperial grandeur he had worked into it. He looked hesitant, but finally told her "Thank you."  
  
She looked at him gently. "I don't think doing this to your father is right. He cares for you in his own way. Is it so important that you have to do it?"  
  
He looked more sad rather than angry with that. "I know my father cares as best he is able to. But these people...understand things he never will. Yes, they are important. And I cannot allow them to go on in this venture without me."  
  
"Then go." she said, surprising herself with her fervent tone. "You should leave and live your life as honestly as you feel you should. Friends who inspire that feeling...are worth fighting for."  
  
At that, he simply smiled at her, nodded, and left. Nothing more. And yet, she felt that in that brief visit, things had changed within her, something had sparked about her stay here.  
  
Yes, Sailune was very much to her liking!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The capital of Lumeria had fallen three days before, its walls cracked and tumbling, its last armies routed and dispersed. The Lumerian King had marshalled an impressive and determined force for this last stand, and had most probably emptied all of his remaining resources to put it together: seven thousand men, many sorcerers included, held the massive walls against the Imperial Army.  
  
But it had been for naught in the end. Outnumbering the enemy by nearly five to one, with more sorcerers and knights and mercenaries on its side, the Empire had slowly eroded the valiant resistance, until it fell apart, opening a wide road to the royal family of Lumeria. The faint rumours he had heard told that the imperials were ready to execute them. Once they did, the remaining nobles - turncoat or not - would frantically swear allegiance to the Emperor, and then Elmekia would annex Lumeria, taking back the land which seceded from it over three centuries previous, when a period of war tore up so many strong powers - powers such as the fabled Elcaz Empire.  
  
There was a time when Mellinius would have done anything to make certain this would never happen. Unfortunately this had meant him following Dallomir, blinded by the sorcerer's promises. He didn't even know, as it was, if the man was even able to understand the doom of the kingdom he had once served so faithfully...until his wife had died.  
  
Now, Dallomir dabbled in dangerous Lores, opening dark possibilities unseen since the War of Resurrection. Driven by a distorted mental image of his wife - or so his ramblings seemed to suggest - the man was bending his will in undoing what the First Knights had worked so hard to keep away from human hands.  
  
Day by day, his former mentor's grip on sanity was slipping.  
  
Each hour brought the world closer to the day he would do something no one might ever repair.  
  
And so, although it irked him impossibly, that it strangled his soul, Mellinius awaited the Imperial strike force sent by Duke Salemir, the Emperor's brother, by a bare wall. Waiting to betray his oaths in the name of the world.  
  
What did it really make of him?  
  
"A fool, certainly." he sighed "And a traitor. But it has to be done. Ceipheed and the Dragon Kings help me, it has to be done!"  
  
"You sound quite certain of yourself." a voice, like a child speaking in the tones of an adult, spoke near him. It sounded amused. Fear and anger gripping him, Mellinius whirled to face a grinning Jomekin.  
  
"You." he couldn't find it within himself to say any more than that. His tone easily conveyed the rest.  
  
"Me. Just me. Completely and unequivocally me. Naughty, naughty Mellinius. Don't you think that I wouldn't notice? Dallomir may be losing his marbles but I don't think I'm quite that far off as to miss you holding secret meetings with the apprentices and the lesser mages in this tower. Did you really think it would escape me, when I take note of everything?"  
  
The man who had been willing to betray his oaths backed away a step, calling upon his strongest spells to mind. Although he knew he was much stronger than the average, he was in no way certain he could take down the manchild - he knew the smaller sorcerer was ruthless and powerful. "I hoped you wouldn't. But since you do, you give me little choice..."  
  
This didn't seem to make much of an effect on the strange little man. "You wish to fight me here, to protect your secrets and probably die for it? Astounding! I knew you had it in you, but still, bravo!" then the manchild's jovial tone dropped to a more serious one. "But you needn't take the trouble. I am not an enemy. In fact, I mean to stop Dallomir as well as you do."  
  
He almost laughed out loud. "And you expect me to believe that?"  
  
"Do you have that much of a choice. If not, we will fight. And even if you slay me, your plan will have been blown quite open, so that even potty Dallomir will notice."  
  
This made him pause angrily. He hated that. He hated Jomekin and is ability to make one appear a fool at the very same time he could be right. "Why should I believe you wish to help me?"  
  
"Right to the meat of the matter? I like that. Its simple: I've managed to look into Dallomir's scrolls - none of them hold a cure for my curse!" his fists clenched, and for a moment Mellinius spied genuine rage and bitterness on the manchild's face. "All this time, Dallomir was lying to me, making me hope, using me. I cannot forgive this. So you see, our goals are the same, even if they have different motives behind them."  
  
The young mage thought about this. It was very plausible. It fell right into Dallomir's ability to manipulate people and blind them to the obvious. He had long ago stopped believing they had brought anything else but dangers with them - certainly nothing beneficial such a cure for a cursed man. But Jomekin had always been known to have an ability to manipulate himself, to set up traps. This could be one, although it didn't quite feel like it was so.  
  
In the end, however, it came down to this question: Do I have a choice?  
  
The answer was obvious. He growled. "I hope trusting you isn't a mistake."  
  
"It is always a mistake to trust. But in this case, I think you may rest easy."  
  
He wasn't so certain of that, but the argument was moot: he felt them coming - a magical signal he had arranged set off in his head, and he concentrated, putting his hand on the wall, focusing to weaken the magical alarms and shield around this particular spot. Willing himself to see the intricate pattern, he managed to push them aside somewhat - but not enough. As much as he concentrated, he couldn't get the darn wards to weaken further. That was when he saw Jomekin put a hand next to his, grinning again.  
  
"Alright. Lets see what we can do about those wards." he jested, then closed his eyes in concentration.  
  
He couldn't believe the manchild had so much power within himself. One moment, the ward was holding despite his efforts, the next they weakened to a manageable level. How could so much power be contained in such an underdeveloped body? And what would Jomekin's power be if he ever reached his adult form one day.  
  
The wall next to the two of them crackled, then a portal flickered, came to life and stabilized. Three figures immediately jumped through, and it slammed shut behind them. Mellinius panted. He couldn't believe how hard an exercise it had been. If it hadn't been for Jomekin...  
  
He stopped at that, the rest unsaid, but understood. He looked at the grinning manchild and nodded his silent thanks, then turned to the three before him. Two women and one man stood there. All were dressed in the garb of the Elmekian magic guilds, and all looked smug to be where they were. He understood that much. Dallomir's tower had been one of the first magical places to break away from the Elmekian died during Lumeria's secession, and it probably filled them with triumph to stand upon its grounds after so many centuries.  
  
Ceipheed, how it rankled him.  
  
But he didn't let it show when he said, "I take it you are the ones the Duke sent."  
  
The man stepped forward. "We are. By Duke Salemir's orders, we are to help you kill the head of this tower, the lumerian archmage known as Dallomir." He seemed to savour those words - far too much in fact. Even Jomekin frowned slightly.  
  
"You shouldn't be feeling so confident." the manchild stated with a feral edge. "Dallomir has lost his sanity, and that will make him even more dangerous than ever before."  
  
"Quite so." one of the females said, face doubtful. "But we are dangerous as well." she dismissed the discussion with a gesture. "Enough of this. Will you let us in one your little plan, or must we improvise something?"  
  
And Mellinius, his heart heavy with anger and guilt, yet determined to do what he thought was right, began to tell of his plans to kill a former friend to former enemies.  
  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
Elcaz Empire: A powerful nation, which rose quickly and attained great height before falling brutally. Founded in 279 AR, it rose to become the most powerful nation the land had ever seen, conquering nation after nation until, by the end of the seventh century; it controlled nearly half the continent. This proved to be its undoing, however, as internal conflicts rose into a terrible war which ravaged the great empire, destroying most of it and splintering it into smaller nations. Many ruins and mighty magics are uncovered even today, forgotten relics of the most powerful of all human realms. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

"Now I'm not in the habit of bragging... heheh, what am I saying?!? I LOVE bragging! You're no match for me, turtle brain! COME AND GET IT!!!!"  
  
- Fezra to a monster  
  
"I've no doubt that what I did was right. Leaving my bride-to-be was harder than many thought, probably because there was something in her that I found very similar to what I was. But there was no choice, no option, which I could exercise. I knew that my friends would be facing dangerous opponents, and I had to be there to face them with they. Sailune's pride would have to bid its time, and so would my father.  
  
That was the way I thought. Now, something in me is not sure I would do it again if I had the choice. Not because of ill feelings or disloyalty, but rather because of the unexpected opponent we saw."  
  
Crown Prince Philionel di Sailune, Memoirs, 1007 AR  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
Phil had had many problems when he had grown up amongst the royalty. Always larger than the norm, always massive for his age, with a face which, he could easily admit it now, didn't have much in the way of pleasing features. It had hardly fit the stiff tastes of the royal court. He had found it hard, to have people snickering at his back, no matter the attention his late mother gave him or the love his youngest brother had for him. No matter his education, he had never fit well with the image the people had of a prince.  
  
But with the common folk, the merchants and peasants who produced all the fine things nobles bought, he had found something. Far from making him an object of ridicule, people had found his looks to be 'less arrogant' than other nobles, more 'earthy' and had given him heartfelt approval. It had spurred him towards travelling the lands, no matter what his father thought. His people had given him trust where the noble families laughed at his back.  
  
He had never forgotten that.  
  
Which explained why, at that very moment, Phil felt rather contrite as he used the natural height and muscular stature he showed to cut a clear path through the throng. No one wanted to mess with a man his size, and everyone - even those who looked rebellious or hostile - gave way when he walked through. All around them, people were streaming, looking over the food stalls. Late summer brought many varieties of fresh fruit and vegetables. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, wheat, corn, all sorts of grains and foods were at the farm stalls they were passing through. People cried their produce, townsfolk came to look and argue.  
  
"This is life." he muttered. Children running to and fro, people talking freely without the restraint, which made the noble courts so stifling. The smell of freshly-baked bread and pies wafting...  
  
"What did you say, Phil?" a voice interrupted his reverie, and he flushed as he realized he had talked out loud. He cast about for something to cover up, and decided to play the disgruntled man.  
  
"I was saying 'This if my life', being put up front just so I can scare people." he winced - that was a lame recovery. His friends, fortunately, didn't say anything to that.  
  
"Can't really blame us for that." Lionel intoned, "I mean it's faster."  
  
"Even though we can't see anything but Phil's back." Narie giggled. The prince smiled to himself. It had taken time, but Narie had finally taken to seeing him as a friend more than a prince. Lionel...well...Lionel was too proper to care about anything but protocols, it seemed.  
  
He stopped near a stall selling raspberries. He looked around carefully, but didn't see anything resembling an inn. "Where is it?" he grumbled, "Why couldn't we decide to meet at a easier point?"  
  
He felt rather than saw Narie shrug. "I guess Fezra wanted to take advantage of the beds and the food at the inn before we went in. Not unreasonable, you know."  
  
"Perhaps, but now we need directions, or we are going to lose a lot of our time - this town is rather large." he looked at the vendor. "Good sir, I was wondering if you knew where I can find the Inn called 'The Silly Bear'?"  
  
The man, indeed, knew where to find it, but it would cost Phil a small basket of raspberries. Fair enough for the prince, who had paid despite Lionel's sighs and looks. As it was, they continued their way, distributing raspberries amongst themselves. They followed the way the merchant had given, but as they passed a small temple, Narie seized his arm strongly. He turned to her, as did Lionel a second later.  
  
"Phil," she breathed "Ain't that who I think that is?" he followed her look. The temple was simple enough - a whitewashed, two-stories structure with columns supporting parts of the walls, a small flight of wide stairs leading to an entryway showing the Ceipheed icon. An ordinary temple, nearly a copy of many others he'd seen in towns. Then he saw the two people leaving the temple, and he blinked his eyes quickly.  
  
No, this was no trick of the light. This was Loerik, athletic, dark-haired Loerik, dressed in his usual mercenary mesh. And that, beside him, with the priestess garb and the lime-green hair, was definitely Hallia. They walked side by side, holding to each other and giving each other looks which Philionel found himself envying them. There was a flush to their faces, and they would have passed right by them if Narie hadn't shaken her surprise and stepped in front of them both.  
  
Confusion, surprise and finally relief and joy. Narie and Hallia held on to each other and squealed, laughing, while Loerik and Phil shook hands heartily. Lionel politely saluted them both, ill at ease, not having the same rapport. Phil, for himself, was glad to be with a man with whom he could talk. He clapped the tall man - who went to his shoulder - on the shoulder with a roaring laugh which made more than a few heads turn.  
  
"Loerik! By Ceipheed, its good to see you, my friend!"  
  
"Nice to see you too, Phil! We were wonderin' when you'd show up." the mercenary replied. "Fezra was starting to get all worked up over you being late and all."  
  
"And eating enough for three grown men in the process, I'm sure."  
  
"With a little help from me and Zashtla." the swordsman grinned "But that's usual. What about you? Did you get any magic thingies to help us out?"  
  
The prince was about to answer, when a greater squeal from Narie distracted him. The priestess had grabbed Hallia's forearm, looking at it wildly, nearly jumping up and down. "Oh Gods! Godsgodsgods! You two...so that's why...now that's...whoa!"  
  
Hallia blushed, but still tried to calm her friend. "Easy, breathe. I know its sudden, but after all-"  
  
"Sudden! You two are married, that's no little thing, Hallia!"  
  
Philionel looked at Narie, exchanged a stunned look with Lionel, before staring at Loerik's forearm. Sure enough, there was a bronze bracelet, engraved with iconic images of Ceipheed and the Earth Dragon King, signifying a matrimonial bond. The prince then scared many passers-by - not to mention his friends - by hauling the tall, armoured man off his feet, and letting go of a roaring, happy laugh.  
  
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! Why you little schemers!" he crowed as he shook the swordsman bodily "Why didn't you tell us right off! This is something to celebrate!" he put the black-haired man down and gave him such a slap that his friend staggered and Lionel winced in sympathy.  
  
The swordsman winced and huffed a moment before regaining his composure. "Well, I'm...glad you...like it, Phil. It was Hallia's idea to do it now."  
  
"That true, Hallie?" Narie inquired. "Why the sudden pace?"  
  
As an answer the priestess simply nodded towards the castle-like mound of towers overlooking the city from a small hill. Phil had been so taken with the lively feel of the town that he'd forgotten just how close he was to danger. There lived the sorcerers who have broken all magical laws by using the Forbidden Lores sealed away long ago. With a pang, he understood why the two had done this even before the priestess explained her reasons.  
  
"We decided...that we wanted to end our lives as husband and wife." she explained, her voice strained for reasons Phil could guess. "And there's no guarantee that...when we go in..." she trailed off, but the sentence ended all the same in the prince's mind. 'When we go in...we might not come out.' an uncomfortable silence fell between them. They didn't even hear the throng around them.  
  
And then Phil turned to them, taking a deep breath, hands on hips. "FEAR NOT! Our cause is a just one. We are on a quest to stop these fiends from undoing the good works and the sacrifices of those who fell a nigh a thousand years ago and on a quest to save a friend in need! JUSTICE and GOOD are on our side! We shall prevail!" he made a fist "And I truly believe that. Between all of us, we can make it. We can stop these monsters, and save our friend."  
  
The others looked unconvinced, but nodded. They hadn't bought his speech all that much - he hadn't expected them to - but he'd stopped the wave of sadness and despair before it came. He would never ask for anything more.  
  
Smiling, his own morale restored, he presented the half-finished raspberry basket and asked, deadpan. "Want some?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Salemir Der Elmekun, Duke of the Westlands and the most powerful man in the Elmekian Empire next to the Emperor himself, wanted to see himself as a patient man. He wasn't one to throw fits or to lose his temper. But he had his set of limits. And the slight he perceived towards his daughter was something, which made his blood boil and his vision narrow.  
  
"Your son has committed an irresponsible slight towards my daughter, Your Majesty. I will not hide that I do not appreciate it!"  
  
King Fedoniel, seated near a window overlooking one of the castle's many gardens, looked grave but composed. "I agree, lord Salemir. And I assure you that my son will face punishment when he returns. I can only give my apologies and the apologies of all of Sailune for this unfortunate event."  
  
It was genuinely said, but the duke wasn't about to let it pass so easily. He wanted something more tangible than excuses, even if said excuses came from one as exalted as the King of Sailune. "I still do not understand why this event occurred at all! Your son should have been here and have known his duty!"  
  
"My son has a strange viewpoint when it comes from duty." a shrug "I am afraid it comes from his mother. She fed him some silly ideas when he was a youth. Fortunately, she died before she could poison my younger sons." he did not seem to mind belittling his late wife this way, leading the duke to assume the King's marriage had been arranged. With a pang, he wondered if this would be his daughter's fate: to be tolerated and given her due, but never receiving any affection from her mate?  
  
He would cross that bridge if and when it came. For now, getting the youths married at all appeared a problem, and it didn't sit well with him. "You son should have been put under surveillance, if you knew his quirks."  
  
"The Crown Prince will certainly not be put under 'surveillance', as you say. He is the heir to this throne and I will not treat him as a commoner, no matter his problems."  
  
"Even when he exhibits such irresponsibility?!?"  
  
"Lord Salemir..."  
  
"This is a political breach of conduct, Your Majesty! It could well be taken as an insult by the Emperor of Elmekia."  
  
Salemir knew that he'd said too much at once, and cursed himself for his anger-loosened tongue. He saw it in the slight tightening of Fedoniel's jaw, in the way the monarch gripped the wine cup he was holding.   
  
"I hope the Emperor would not do such a thing. I would take any hostile words as sufficient reasons to implement...restraints...towards Elmekia's military actions."  
  
It was a threat in response to a threat. Few nations would have dared to incur Elmekia's wrath, even when its military stood weakened by years of warfare. But Sailune wasn't a small nation, which could easily be silenced, like Dalfera or Fameel. Sailune dominated trade and politics, and fielded the most well equipped army in all the lands. It was a powerful juggernaught that had dominated the continent for two centuries. It could face down any of the nations, from the smallest independent city-state to the most powerful grand nation.  
  
Salemir, however, had this one thing no one ever seemed to count on- the pride of House Elmekun. His eyes flashed, his anger blazing anew, and he barely contained himself from making a remark, which might have started an incident then and there.  
  
"Gentlemen, please. Let us think this through calmly before giving any rash speeches." the third occupant of the room intoned gently, his voice unobtrusive and yet holding immeasurable wisdom and power. Salemir turned his blazing eyes towards the unseeing ones of the other man.  
  
"With all due respect, Lord Rezo, the fact remains that this action was taken without taking my daughter into consideration."  
  
"Are you so certain of that?"  
  
"Of course!"  
  
"And yet, and with all due respect to you, Lord Salemir, I think that you are wrong when you say prince Philionel left without taking his leave of you daughter."  
  
"And, Lord Rezo, how did you come by this conclusion?" he knew he was making another mistake - angering the most powerful mage in the land could only have disastrous results - but he didn't care. His anger would not allow him to be talked down by anyone, not even the Red Priest. Rezo's answer, however, caught him off-guard.  
  
"I learned the truth by the simplest way - I asked your daughter about it directly. Did you not?"  
  
With a start, Salemir considered this and saw that he hadn't. He had simply assumed that Valmatia would come to him if there was anything important he needed to know. He felt mildly guilty about not seeking her out and talking to her. His hearing the news had erased all other thoughts from his mind, it seemed. Shameful.  
  
Still, he couldn't simply believe that someone as fickle as Philionel would have had the tact to take his leave of his daughter. He knew the rumours, and although he would believe they weren't all to be believed, he had heard that the Crown Prince was queer too often not to take this as the truth. Once more, he bitterly regretted having let his brother give his bright, beautiful daughter away to such a lout, no matter the Empire's situation at the time.  
  
He realized that his heated arguments had taken him right out of his chair, and that he was standing up. Feeling self-conscious, he sat at once. "You're saying he took care of her feelings."  
  
"Indeed, and from what she told me, he did so quite tastefully." he frowned ever so slightly. "Let me say this, and to you as well, Highness: the prince is about to enter a dangerous situation to stop sorcerers from doing a thing none should do. It is dangerous, and they might be killed. But it is worth the risk."  
  
This made the King sit up straight in his seat. "What do you mean, Lord Rezo?"  
  
The powerful mage's tone was set and solemn "The prince is involved with something in Lumeria you are familiar with, Lord Salemir. We are talking about the Forbidden Lores, of course."  
  
Salemir felt himself freeze. He had permitted his daughter to be married off to a madman. "You can't mean he went to Dallomir's fortress?!?"  
  
"He did. He and a few others. All of them are young, but I knew from my scrying that they are powerful - moreso than the group you sent. Alas, I cannot help them. I cannot allow the knowledge of the Forbidden Lores to become common knowledge, and my presence in this endeavour would only do exactly that. I have to trust on them to carry the task to fruition."  
  
How did one argue with Rezo the Red Priest, known throughout the world as one of the Five Wiseman of the Age? Salemir had never trusted wizards, never completely tolerated the arrogance with which some broke laws and did reprehensible deeds. But Rezo was too powerful, and too well-liked, having so many friends and political connections that he could truly tell kings and queens what to do. One did not rant at Rezo, one did not argue with Rezo. One simply accepted that the Red Priest had decided on a course of action.  
  
He didn't know if he should be relieved. If Philionel died, then his daughter would come back to him. But if he lived, odds are that his daughter would find him trustworthy, and possibly - he choked at the very idea - become truly bonded to the fool. He preferred that his own group handle the situation and maintain a status quo on the question. Yes, that would be better for all involved.  
  
Instead of all these thoughts, instead of anger, Salemir simply asked, "Will they succeed?"  
  
"I dearly hope so. Because we would find ourselves in quite a situation. For I have read about the spells and artefacts sealed by the First Knights. Let us just say I hope Dallomir will not succeed."  
  
"And if he does?"  
  
"Then you House's pride might well become the last of your concerns."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
It throbbed.  
  
The wound throbbed. That damn wound. Always. It throbbed now; fiercer than ever, as Kalarus lived through the disastrous fight he'd had with his nemesis.  
  
He had planned it all so well. The attacks had drawn off Gabriev's friends, except for that little wench he'd apparently taken a liking to. It had been no matter - he would have killed the girl quickly, and then concentrated on his main opponent. Matters had been simplified when Gabriev, probably sensing how dire the situation would shortly become, had convinced her to leave him. It had been perfect. Gabriev was there, alone, and this time he would find himself beaten in a truly fair fight.  
  
Only it hadn't worked that way.  
  
He had expected a stiff fight - he knew his nemesis was gifted. But he had never imagined it would be that much. He had thrown his strongest attacks, had feinted again and again, looking for a gap, and each time Loerik had found away to parry, had blocked and thrown his sword away. Soon enough, the surprise had fallen away from the awkwardness of his blows, and Kalarus himself had found that he needed to guard himself, stopping vicious blows, expecting feint. He had exerted himself to his fullest, calling upon all of his skills and all of the strength in his body, only to find himself barely breaking even with the younger swordsman.  
  
And then it had happened. A blow had fallen in, had broken through the mighty defences, and inflicted a grievious wound.   
  
But it hadn't been Loerik who'd screamed in pain as blackness forever stole half his vision away.  
  
No.  
  
It had been Kalarus himself.  
  
The realization hadn't sunk in, even after he had left the village, still hearing the noise of battle and the screams of the dying. He never gave a thought for the men he was leaving behind - they'd been nothing more than tools. He had merely stumbled, in a haze of pain and stunned disbelief.  
  
Defeated, once more. A Master Swordsman, nearly a Sword Master certainly, he yet defeated. And this time, he knew he couldn't blame not having been prepared. He had fallen upon an unsettled Gabriev and had been defeated, soundly, almost definitely. What had kept him alive he did not remember. All in knew was that right after the blood had covered his face and the pain filled his body, the other warrior had looked at him with death in his eyes.  
  
Throb, throb, and throb. He put a hand over his face, not wanting to look at himself in any reflection, keeping his good eye closed. He had stumbled to a priest, who had healed the wound as best as his powers could. But although the blood had been stench by the healing, and the wound partially closed, the scar still gaped in an angry red, and his eyes was an unseeing, reddish orb.  
  
His shame was complete...defeated, utterly humiliated by a damn boy!  
  
He couldn't accept...he couldn't! Something had to have been wrong! Gabriev had to have cheated somehow. Only how? He hadn't known Kalarus was coming. How could he have made such a treacherous act so quickly?   
  
Maybe...maybe the bastard had known. Aye, AYE! That was it! That was the only explanation. The man had learned of the attack beforehand, and had prepared a plan to humiliate him. Damn that Gabriev, he had known!!! That was why he'd been able to defeat him in the end. He'd bid his time, and then had struck out fiendishly, unfairly, and had won because of it!  
  
He couldn't remember what the treacherous shot had been. It had been going so fast, and then it had changed...everything was possible. All he knew was that he had been beaten unfairly once more, and that demanded revenge!  
  
"You darn...Gabriev, ye treacherous little scum, I'll get ya fer this, I tell ya..." he muttered darkly.  
  
"You say somethin'?" A voice next to him asked "You been lookin' mighty weird for a few moments, buddy." Kalarus opened his sole working eye and stared around him. He was in an inn, in the village closest to the Lumerian-Coastal Alliance border. A watered, too-warm ale was before him. And another patron, another mercenary it seemed, was looking at him while the others simply went about ignoring him.  
  
The scarred swordsman's mouth curled down. "Dun remember ever tellin' you were any buddy o' mine."  
  
"Geez, was just askin'. Don't get all worked up 'ver it." the other man replied.  
  
"Then don't say things that aren't true, I tell ya. It'd so do you good."  
  
The other man was a mercenary alright - no one could get off insulted about a small threat then a full-time merc. The man's face darkened perceptively. "Now you look here, buddy-"  
  
"I'm tellin' ya, I'm no buddy o' yours. Now be off, before I get angry at ya, little puppy."  
  
That was it as far as the mercenary was concerned. With already more than a few ale on his breath and in his eyes, the man stood up on slightly wobbly legs and glared down at Kalarus. "You'll regret that, ol' cripple!" he said as he fumbled for his sword.  
  
He never managed to reach it in time.  
  
In a lightning move, Kalarus rabbit-punched the other man in the gut, and then took hold of his head as he doubled from the sudden pain. He growled as he slammed it upon the bar, shattering the mug the man had been drinking from, driving bits into both the head and the hand, which held it. He didn't feel any pain yet. The white-hot rage, the disconcerting emotions that had hold of him denied him anything else. He slammed the man's head again and again. Hands tried to stop him - he pushed them off and continued until the man went limp. He breathed hard, looked around him with one single wild eye, daring anyone to get close.  
  
All saw the way he looked and what he did. None took him up on his silent challenge. He bent towards the man who'd been foolish enough to challenge him at such a time. Still alive, was he? Lucky him.  
  
"An ol' cripple, am I? Not looking mighty fine yourself right now, I tell ya. Little piece o' nothing, go and live on yer crappy life. Don't bother me again." he slammed the head on the counter again, looking at the blood flowing - little of it his. With a grunt of disgust, he threw some money to the barkeep and made his way out. No one tried to stop him. Intelligent folk, all of them.  
  
The wound started throbbing sharply as he left. It seemed to drive right into his brain! He gasped in pain, forgetting his surroundings. He was thus highly surprised when a voice sounded just in front of him.  
  
"I'll say, that was entertaining! Gruesome, but highly worth the stop in such a nondescript little town." the voice said in a cheerful tone. Putting a hand on the hilt of his blade, Kalarus glared up with his good eye, to face a purple-haired man of average stature, eyes closed and smiling. A priest, from his garb.  
  
"I'm not in the mood fer priest mumbo jumbo. Get out of my sight, I tell ya!" he drew his sword an inch to emphasize his point. To his surprised the threat didn't make the man waver. Instead, it actually seemed to make him happier.  
  
"Oh, there's no need for that!" the man said jovially, shaking a finger "I'm not an enemy. Oh, but I forgot to introduce myself." he bowed with a flourish. "Xellos, Trickster Priest, at your service sir!"  
  
"Well, Xellos, I don't have time for ya. Gotta get some payback from someone."  
  
"From Loerik Gabriev, I suppose? That won't do! Not yet!"  
  
Kalarus, who had begun walking away, stopped and turned in surprise. "How do ye know that? How CAN ye know?"  
  
"So many questions! As for how I know, that is a secret. But there's much more I can tell. About the Gabriev family. About the Sword of Light. And mostly, about better means to get revenge in the long run." he gestured towards another establishment. "I'll have a drink there. Follow me if you want some answers." without further ado, still smiling in perfect happiness, the priest walked away.  
  
And driven by questions, and by the tempting idea of getting information and revenge, Kalarus eventually followed.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"You know, I still can't quite believe it."  
  
Marcus looked up from his half-finished breakfast and cocked an eyebrow. "And what might it be?"  
  
She gestured around at the people. "This. The people here. They're Lumerians, most of them-"  
  
"They 'were' Lumerians." Philionel interjected. Fezra continued as if she hadn't heard him.  
  
"-And look at them. They're just continuing as if nothing's wrong. Their capital's fallen, the Emperor's going to be their new ruler from now on and, unless something pretty drastic happens, he and his kids are going to be ruling here for a good long while. Don't they care at all about that?"  
  
Her passionate tone could be heard easily, and Marcus saw many heads turn towards them, most of them showing varying tones of scowling and frowns. Evidently, the Lumerians in the inn didn't care much for the speech. And that meant trouble if it went further. Trouble they didn't need, at least until they had completely formulated their plans. He tapped the table gently. "Fez, you might want to stop talking right now. We're getting unwanted attention."  
  
Fezra glared, but Philionel and Narie immediately added their assent and supported Marcus' advice. "Its no good to rile the people for what they do or fail to do. I don't think they don't care, but what's the alternative? To rise up against the occupying forces? With what? Their armies are crushed; the few loyal remnants to a possible heir to the throne have fled who knows where. They have little resources left to fight the Elmekians at all. The best thing for them to do is to live with it as best they can."  
  
"Besides," Narie continued almost reluctantly "These people live far from the capital. Its normal that it wouldn't affect them as..." she hesitated. "...As it affects me or Hallia. We came from a city situated perhaps four days' ride from the capital. These people are much farther. So as long as the taxes aren't too high and the soldiers don't bully them, I don't see them really complaining."  
  
Marcus nearly applauded, restraining himself only because he knew it would only make Fezra get worse, if only to spite him. Narie had showed herself to be an energetic woman who genuinely wanted to participate in the group's mission. She wanted to prove to them all she wasn't a liability anymore. He feared the priestess wasn't feeling as well as she let on, though. But who was he to stop her if she wanted to do the best she could.  
  
As for Fezra, well, he wasn't so certain about her and what he felt. He knew he didn't dislike her. Her arrogance, her sense of fun and her optimism even now when Berwen might have been killed or worse, it all struck a cord in him, in a good way. But he still feared going through anymore step. It galled him, but he feared starting a true relationship with Fezra. He wasn't sure it would hold up to the test of time, and the mere thought of him and she being estranged horrified him. In a way, she seemed to look at him the same way, yet differently.  
  
Complicated relationship! How he hated it! Not for the first time, he envied the way Loerik and Hallia had drifted to each other so simply. He hadn't read doubts in their eyes yet. What was different between them?  
  
As if on cue, he saw the two entering through the doorway separating the common rooms from the inn's bedrooms. Both of them looked radiant, despite the fact they would soon be facing possibly lethal danger. They held on to each other as if each moment was bliss, which was unrealistic. He supposed that was the way young couples felt in the beginning of marital life. He couldn't say, he didn't know what it was to marry. He only wished them happiness.  
  
He also wished he might one day find that bliss with Fezra. After he managed to stop doubting the future.  
  
Fezra, for some reason, relaxed when she saw the couple - and a trailing Lionel - entering, much to everyone else's relief. "Hey, hey, looky here! The two lovebirds have arrived? Did Lionel wrench you two out of your little nest?" the teasing tone, so biting as it could be at times, was now warm and fond, probably due to the unlikely friendship the fiery-tempered sorceress and the kind priestess had developed.  
  
Loerik looked mildly confused by the way she had turned her phrase, but Hallia and Lionel understood the undertones perfectly. The former only winked. After they had announced their impromptu wedding to Marcus and the others - who had seen this coming for a while, they had practically locked themselves in a room, only leaving from time to time, looking tired but impossibly happy.  
  
Lionel, however, did not partake in the fun of the moment, in the easy camaraderie. He scowled at Fezra as if her tease had been a deliberate insult. Marcus shook his head. The man was bright, and being Rezo's most promising student probably put a lot of pressure on one's shoulders, but the man desperately needed to relax sometimes. He wondered how he had ever managed to get together with Rezo's daughter at all, given his stern, sometimes-inflexible personality.  
  
They all took their place at the table, and Lorik proceeded to order breakfast, telling the serving maid that yes, he would have four portions of what he'd asked for and, no, it wasn't a joke or anything like that. The other two were more conventional in what they ordered.  
  
"So!" Loerik exclaimed, "This is it! We're all here! We can get there and give some payback, eh?"  
  
"As long as we get Berwen back," Fezra nodded "That'll be good enough for me. But kicking those jerks' heads around a bit would be a very nice bonus. Alright, Lionel. What did you find out?"  
  
Lionel took his time before answering - another point Marcus hated. He knew he himself was arrogant, but the Red Priest's assistant had a flair for self-importance. After a long moment of silence, he spit out what he'd been thinking for a while.  
  
"Oh, take leave of your air of superiority and tell us what you've seen. You're making us waste our time!" Fezra actually looked at him in surprise. What, was she the only one who had to have a temper here? Lionel actually sniffed at that, but stopped his preening and began.  
  
"I've felt around the entire grounds." he said "It was exactly as we expected: glamour and wards everywhere."  
  
"Quality?" Fezra asked grimly.  
  
"The best. The only wards, which can top what I've felt, would be the Central Magic Guild in Zefielia, the Magic Guild in Atlas City and the Wards around master Rezo's mansion. This is excellent work. Impossible for anyone trailing magic to go there undetected, unless aided from inside in some way.  
  
"And we don't have that kind of help." Hallia finished. Loerik frowned but said nothing.  
  
They all looked to Marcus then. Even Fezra. A part of him felt deeply satisfied they relied on him when plans came around, but he also felt a bit annoyed - Fezra, Hallia and Lionel knew their way around plans, and Loerik had intensive tactical knowledge learned from years on the battlefield. Deep down, he knew why. Each had their roles. Fezra was their leader, the one they could trust to lead them inside and outside a situation. Loerik was the soldier, the one who, while not the brightest light in the band, was a fountain of useful tricks and skills. Hallia and Narie were priestesses, Lionel a mage, Phil a naturally powerful man. They each had their uses, their strengths. They expected him to be the group's tactician.  
  
So be it. "We expected it would be this way." he mused "We'll switch to plan B then, a direct attack, we hit them hard and fast. However, I think we should wait until tonight before making any move. We'll enter together, and then separate into three groups to cover as much ground as possible. It's risky, I know, but to find Berwen before they can mount a significant counter-strike, we'll need to cover lots of grounds. Any objections?"  
  
No one had any. Not even Lionel. Not Fezra, whose judgement he trusted above all. He nodded at his friends.  
  
"Alright then. I suppose we have a lot to do then. Let's start by the three teams. This is what I propose..."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Berwen couldn't take it any longer. Her mind was suffocating in this substance, replacing the fading torture her body had gone through. Her entire body felt numb - strangely so, and there was something wrong with the new flesh she had gingerly touched. The liquid around her kept her contained, she knew. But she was ready to break out or die trying.  
  
Desperately she felt for the magic, the source of power that had sustained her in her fights and in her hours of loneliness, and found it lacking. She trashed against her invisible bounds, tried to grasp its edge, but it was all for naught. Whatever the field cursed monsters that had done this to her had erected; it wasn't something a temper tantrum could undo. She had to think, and it was difficult in this place.  
  
She tried to think of a way to fight this. If Fezra were here, she would -  
  
-NO! She wouldn't rely on Fezra. That traitor had been in one this, she was certain of it. She was probably gloating over it somewhere, knowing she had reduced her to silence. The betrayal, the break in their friendship once against sent her to the edge of her sanity. Damn Fezra for dealing her away! Better she'd killed her!  
  
But maybe Fez didn't know, maybe she only wanted us away and...  
  
How naive can you be? Fezra always knows what she'd get into. She knew what would happen. The only thing was that she didn't care about what happened to you.  
  
B-but...  
  
ENOUGH! Enough of your squirming! No one is going to come and rescue you. Fezra is in on it, and that probably means that bastard Marcus, that dumb fool Loerik, and that conniving priestess, Hallia. Even Philionel probably was in on it! You have no friends here! You never had any friends! All of it was only wishful thinking. They MADE you believe, and you fell for it!  
  
...I-I...  
  
The only thing left - the ONLY OPTION LEFT! - Is to seek them out now, and make certain they never break you again, that they never hurt you again! We must take action!  
  
...action...out...  
  
Yes, we must get out!  
  
...get out....I want...to get out....I want it! I want it! I want it!  
  
And pay Fezra back!  
  
Yes!  
  
And show her your anger! To get your revenge on the ones who did this to you! On Dallomir! On Jomekin! On Marcus! ON FEZRA!!!  
  
YES!!!  
  
Caught in the throes of the internal conflict she had been waging unendingly - or so it seemed to her fractured psyche - the feel of magic briefly returning didn't immediately register. When it did, however, Berwen felt as if she'd been slapped twice. Once, because of the sudden feel of magic returning to her, and then a second time as it was just as abruptly cut off. She scrambled to understand what she had done, what had caused the magic to burst through for that small moment. Had it been her anger at Fezra? No...no, it hadn't been that. She realized that the moment she had felt magic, was when all the voices inside of her, each and every fibre of her being had been focused upon a strong emotion. She remembered Fezra telling her about it once...  
  
Fezra..Fezra, Fezra Fezra! Enough of her! She could think without that bitch, that traitor's help!! Floating in the magical liquid, she concentrated her thoughts, trying to find a single image, which could help her reach the blissful energies again. The attempt, however, fails. No magic seeps through no matter how strongly she thought, or how much she concentrated upon and idea or an emotion. Could it have been a fluke? She refused to believe it, but what else could it be?  
  
She suddenly remembered one of her teachers in Zefielia. He had been talking about Black Magic. He had said that it drew upon negative emotions, and had a source, which was, derived from the dark half of magical energies.   
  
But he had also said, "Black magic cannot simply be drawn like Shamanism and it can't be called like White Magic. It must be felt. The emotion must be there, and if it is there, the magic should come to you."  
  
Yes. She had felt the need for revenge. On Fezra. It had burned into her soul, it had overwhelmed her senses and she supposed her mind had unconsciously managed to call the magic! In that case, she knew exactly what she needed to remember.  
  
Fezra, kissing Marcus while he slept. Sneaking around like a thief. Berwen had seen this happen, although she hadn't told the others thinking them friends still in those days of blindness. She had seen it, and at that moment her hopes had shattered, her plans for the future, her possibilities had all been destroyed. She had felt many things, but she could remember the strongest emotion: despair. It had overwhelmed her, she remembered it easily, and she let it resurface.  
  
Nothing...nothing left...nothing because of him...nothing because of her. Nothing because of them both! Nothing at all left! DAMN THEM!! DAMN THEM BOTH TO OBLIVION!  
  
Her hollow anger, her heart-filled despair, fell through her, and nearly obliterated thought. She let it pass without inhibitions, and for a moment, a single moment, she attained a complete focus of emotion.  
  
And the magic came at that moment.  
  
This time, she was ready. Her mind was unsure of many things, but it knew it had to take advantage of this moment. She took hold of that thread both without and within, and concentrated the energy. In one moment it was gathered, and she put her hand in front of her, and garbled two words that, while garbled by the liquid, were perfectly understand to the power.  
  
"ELMEKIA LANCE!"  
  
A beam of pure greenish-white energy streams towards the edge of the containment, and tangled with it. The field buckled, fizzled, contending with the energy, which it had to deal with - magical energy, which shouldn't be there. For a few seconds, the field weakened, and she knew her sole window had perhaps opened. Her concentration waned, her head hurt, and she saw globs of blood drifting from her nose, but she managed to utter one other spell.  
  
"RAYWING!"  
  
The spell lasted an instant concentration, and then shattered. But it was enough. She no longer felt anything imprisoning her, but instead she crashed with a thus which she found loud and..strange. Then her body took over, forcing her to purge herself of the liquid she had been a prisoner with, until she was gasping in fresh air in great lungful. A strained laugh escaped her lips as she put and hand on her face.  
  
"Didn't get me...Fezra...Dallomir...you two didn't..." and then she took knowledge of the feel of her hand. She should have been feeling moist flesh upon moist flesh. But it didn't feel that way. It felt...metallic. She looked at her arm, and recoiled in horror.  
  
Her arm was no longer flesh. The liquid had hidden the truth that it seemed to be covered in some sort of reddish metallic skin. She suddenly remembered the words Dallomir had once uttered to her. A project to recreate Lei Magnus's experiments...his chimeric experiments.  
  
"No...no..." she saw a mirror on the wall, farther on. It had been there she had seen herself, struggling and frightened, before they had put her in there. "No...you'll see...it'll show it's just some sort of armour...or a spell..."  
  
Terror gripped her heart, but she forced herself to trudge, her limbs weak, in ruined clothes. She dreaded what she would see, but her mind would not let her rest. It had to know, even as it held everything on the hopes it had. In the end, she thrust her whole self in front of the mirror.  
  
And beheld horror.  
  
"NO." was the only sound uttered for long minutes.  
  
And as she uttered that word, looking at what she had become, Berwen felt something within her change.  
  
And twist irrevocably.  
  
_____________________________________________________________  
  
Master Swordsman: Swordsman who has achieved a very high level of proficiency. Has to undergo ritual testing and prove his worth through five battles, each with a handicap, against other Master Swordsmen. Master Swordsmen are rare, and very powerful; often possessing skills beyond what ordinary fighters can reach.  
  
Sword Master: The Highest Level of proficiency a swordsman can hope to attain, Blade Masters are renowned swordsmen who have years and years of experience and have hone their skills with a blade to unsurpassed levels. Each aspirant Sword Master is tested at the Earth Dragon King Temple near Kalmaart's capital, where they must complete a quest and fight a Sword Master to a draw. A Sword Master usually wears a bracelet etched with rune of skill, which any fighter worth his salt can recognize. They are a very rare breed, able to stand up to dangers such as dragons and maddened black sorcerers and often come out the winner.  
  
Grand Nations: The large nations that dominate all aspects of life on the continent. Have very large territories, dominated by one or more metropolis, a few large cities and a myriad of smaller towns and villages. The most powerful are Sailune, Elmekia, Zefielia and Lyzeille.  
  
Minor Nations: Small nations usually encompassing one large city and a few towns and villages. Usually have a very small territory. Examples of these are Fameel, Dalfera and Xoana. 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

I had lost my homeland. The Lumerian-Elmekian War of 982-985 was over, and there was no hope that the Imperial Sceptre would ever let go of its annexation within my lifetime. I know I should have grieved for my father and brothers, probably long dead since, but the fact was that I'd made my peace with everything, that I stopped yearning for the past and looking hard towards the future.  
  
My future...that I today know will be under the name Gabriev, and with a man who loves me as much as I do him. It makes me hopeful. It makes me warm.  
  
But it doesn't quite dispel the chill I feel today. For today, we attack...  
  
- Scribbled note found in Hallia's memoirs  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
The group walking the winding path leading to the sorcerous tower was a grim one. Every single one knew that the odds were stacked against them, and that it would only make sense for them to turn back, report to the proper authorities and let them do the work. There was no shame in being reasonable, after all. They all knew this, and yet walked on.  
  
But Marcus knew that none of them would ever think of turning back. For one thing, they were too proud to do so after having come this far, he himself not the least of them! Each was there for his or her own reason. He looked at his friends for a moment, gauging each of them silently.  
  
Philionel was coming because he wanted what was just and right to prevail, naive though it might be. That belief fuelled his resolve, and despite the fact it made him quite eccentric, Marcus would be glad the day Philionel would rule Sailune - the world needed a truly just monarch from time to time!  
  
Zasthla came because she had made an oath of loyalty long ago, when Fezra had saved her from the fate a female prisoner often suffered. That, and the fact that she had become attached to them all. Narie, for her part, wanted to come to show her worth to the team. He'd heard the story from the others, and sympathized more than he'd ever let on. Lionel was straightforward - Rezo had ordered it, and that was the end to it. Marcus didn't like that much, but he had no choice but to accept it.  
  
Hallia...well, Hallia probably came in order to set things right in the name of Ceipheed and the Four Dragon Kings. Superficially, at least. In truth, he suspected her reason came mostly from private disgust over the abuses sorcerers could indulge in. She never said so, but her manner was plain. He could respect that, sorcerer though he was.  
  
Loerik. Not the brightest light in the sky, but a strong and stalwart one, Marcus felt he came out of a sense of belonging. Estranged from half of his blood, he had been forced into a lonely life, and was willing to go anywhere with the people who had given it a purpose once more. The swordsman had found friendship and love, and had no intention of letting go of either.  
  
Then there was Fezra. He always ended his observations with her, and never knew what to make of them. She had the strongest reason of them all - she wanted to save Berwen, her childhood friend. Although they all felt responsible for her disappearance and her possible rescue, none of them had ever forged any link with the silent sorceress. In fact, she seemed to have done everything she could to keep them at bay. Consequently, only Fezra truly cared. That, and a sense of adventure, of beating the odds, seemed to move her forward.  
  
And what of himself? What was his reason for trudging onward to what could be his death? He supposed the orders he had received from Atlas City's Guild could be considered a good reason. He had his arrogance - he could admit to it privately - and his sense of duty, after all. But that would have been lying to himself, and that wasn't his genre.  
  
He went because Fezra went. There. He'd admitted it. He wanted to be near Fezra, no matter the place she was. Did that make him nothing more than some follower? It might be. But for some reason he couldn't manage to feel appalled about it. What did that say about him and his feelings?  
  
"Y'know-" Fezra began.  
  
"-these bracelets had better work." the others chorused. The sorceress blinked, then flushed.  
  
"Ah...yeah, I know I've mentioned it a few times-"  
  
"TWELVE times." Marcus interjected. She gave him a look, and he smirked right back. How he loved doing that. How he loved seeing her do that. It pained him that a part of him wouldn't let him admit what he felt.  
  
"A FEW times...but I've been thinking that we haven't much of a backup plans in case things go wrong." she growled.  
  
"That's because if the bracelets don't work, we'll be in so much trouble that I don't think any backup plan's going to work." Hallia pointed out. Fezra's response was a grunt. It was always the same thing. She knew everything that might happen, she knew the answers she'd get, but it wouldn't be Fezra if she didn't voice what she thought from time to time.  
  
Loerik, who was idly munching a piece of hard cheese, chose to add his own jab. "Worse comes to worse, we fight our hardest, and hope." Marcus supposed three years as a mercenary in a large war made people less than fidgety about the possibility of death.  
  
Philionel struck a pose, crossing his arms. "Fear not! Justice is on our side! With its strength, we shall prevail!" he stood like that for a little while, then sighed "Yet, for some reason, I find myself doubting it will be so simple an outcome." he admitted ruefully.   
  
"It won't." Zashtla agreed "These sorcerers meant business the other time, and they'll have more followers in that place."  
  
Like they needed to be reminded. Marcus looked at the bracelet on his arm, bracelets of great power, granted them, if the others' tale held any truth, by Sai Lune himself. He felt a power coming from it, a power both strange and alluring. This had the tones of dragon and elvish magic's meshed together. A powerful artefact. The problem was, the sorcerers held many of the Forbidden Lores for themselves, and had probably learned how to use more of it this time.  
  
Marcus frowned as they neared the stronghold. Old and many-towered, it had been crafted to cow and impress. And in the region, it might. But compared to such castles one could find in Sailune and Elmekia, it simply didn't match up. Marcus's mouth curled in distaste. Wasted grandiloquence, all of it. Nothing more than a hideout for fools who were playing with things long forbidden.  
  
"Pretty tall-looking place, eh?" Fezra asked, a familiar light in her eyes.  
  
"It sure is. It sure is." he nodded. "But all I know is that I want to kick their asses for the last time! This time...with this," he showed the bracelet on his forearm, glinting with mystical runes from another age "We might just have a chance."  
  
"Of course we do!" she exclaimed, and then leaned in closer "As long as the two of us are together, nothing can hurt us." she whispered so low that he was certain that none of the others heard. His heart and soul whirled for an infinite moment. That sentence could mean many things, including that thing which still clogged the back of his mind. His lack of answer seemed to irritate her slightly. "So powerful and yet so clueless. Oh well."   
  
Marcus knew he looked like a fool as the others stopped in front of the magical stronghold's gate. He saw Hallia and Loerik Hold each other, and exchange the kind of kiss people shouldn't do for all to see. It was plain that these two had found love in each other. For a moment, he considered ways to convince them to stay behind, but dismissed them at once. They had their reason to come, and would stand by them.  
  
He wished his own goals were as clear. But if it meant that Fezra would still be there by the end...  
  
"You were right on, Lionel. Lots of barriers and wards. We'll need a very big spell to take care of it." her eyes looked mischievous when she took Marcus in. "Care to do the honours?"  
  
His smile returned at once. Whatever mix-up his feelings might be doing to him, he wasn't about to let them mess up his reputations. He strolled towards the group and bowed. "But of course. Everyone stand back!" he said, and everyone did. They knew which spell he was about to cast, and the damage to those who ever got caught in it.  
  
He concentrated his mystical energies quickly, and forced magic into each word shaping his will and the mana into the powerful spell. "Darkness beyond Twilight, Crimson beyond Blood that Flows! Buried in the Stream of Time, it is where your Power Grows. I vow to Conquer all the Foes who Stand, with the Power bestowed upon my Unworthy Hand..." the energy, gathered slowly, lighting his forearm, and he felt a pressure, a need for release, and mentally stabilized everything as he uttered the words which would activate the power.   
  
"DRAGON SLAVE!!!"  
  
The power was released. That was it.  
  
These sorcerers were about to get their asses kicked!!!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
There were things that a person like Jomekin disliked. In fact, there were many things that Jomekin disliked, but that was beside the point. He had levels of dislike, beginning with a slight dislike for cats and ending by a murdering hatred of all those who ever pointed out his cursed condition to him. One of these highest levels belonged to matters of control, of which he wanted nothing that would jeopardize it. It was a rule he had with himself, a rule that had served him well in life.  
  
He thus felt quite upset when the explosion resounded, shaking the room in which he, that naive fool Mellinius and a band of Elemkian sorcerers waited for their time to strike against unbalanced Dallomir. "What is it now?!?" he growled aloud.  
  
"A magical explosion." the other Lumerian wizard muttered "A very powerful one. In fact, the way it shook the whole structure for a moment, it should be..."  
  
"A Dragon Slave." he finishes grimly "Someone has hit this structure with a Dragon Slave." he turned his manchild eyes towards the Elmekian spellcasters. "Is that one of your plans?"  
  
The Elmekians exchanged looks, and then the one whom Jomekin thought was the leader - one icy-tongued fellow - spoke quietly. "No. None of us are capable of casting the Dragon Slave. I can cast one or two high-level Elmekia Lances, as can these others, as well as Fireballs and other defensive and offensive spells. But certainly not this. Only a few can cast this, as you well know."  
  
Jomekin did. Cast for the first time one thousand years ago by the warped archwizard Lei Magnus, the spell was the strongest known spells in Black Magic, long kept under heavy wraps in the great Magic Guild of Zefielia. At any given time, only a handful had ever been able to cast it. It took someone of great natural skill, power and mental fitness to cast even one Dragon Slave. Jomekin himself had that power...barely. And the spell he'd felt was far more stable than his own. What it hinted at struck him with unease.  
  
"Alright." he thought quickly, hearing the fast patter of feet outside, listening to vague, worried voices shouting. The entire keep was in an uproar, it seemed. This could work to our advantage. Most of the servants and lesser sorcerers would have backed Dallomir, which would have made our attempt difficult. Now, however, we may strike while these others have the attention."  
  
"There are over one hundred soldiers and sorcerers here." Mellinius warned "And most of them will be against us. As things stand, I might only be able to reach but a few of my faction. We are still heavily outnumbered."  
  
"Then it is time for you to move and get to them, while I and these others strike at them by surprise. Get moving. Gather your rebels. And let people like me do what we do so well." he followed this declaration with a childish smile, which made the younger one flinch and move from the room quickly. He looked at the Elmekian killers. "Let's strike now!!"  
  
They moved outside, to an empty corridor lit by magical globes. He moved briskly, hearing the faint steps of the others. By all rights, he would still be seen as an eminent, if unloved, member of this keep. That would give him the edge he would need. It wouldn't last, he knew that starkly well, but he knew he'd be able to kill more than few before he was targeted himself.  
  
He had, in short, become a traitor. Or so it would be in the eyes of many others. He was certain that Mellinius, the fool, was hard at work condemning himself for his actions even as he went forward to rally more for the coup against Dallomir. But not Jomekin. Nom he did not feel like he was betraying anyone. His own loyalty had been based upon Dallomir's promise to him long ago, about finding a cure for his body. The older mage, he had found, never meant to help him at all, even when his mind was still sane.  
  
Dallomir had used him. So his loyalty towards him was just as void and baseless. No, he felt no regrets at his actions. What he felt, however, was a soft feeling of elation.  
  
Steps becoming his way. Hurries voices were rounding the corner, none of them being Mellinius'. He waited, speaking arcane words, gathering energy. He was a few steps away from the Elmekians, so he was quite alone to the eyes of the five apprentices who ran up. To a man, they stopped when they saw him, openly relieved to see him - which was unusual in itself.  
  
"Sir!" one of the youths panted, "We are under attack!"  
  
"A band of adventurers, with two sorcerers of great power with them! You must act, sir!.  
  
Jomekin nodded grimly, keeping his expression still. A band of adventurers? That struck a cord, which he dismissed at once, instead bringing his hand up swiftly. "Indeed, I must act." With a last word of arcane power, a red ball of fire appeared. The apprentices looked at it in surprise and dawning horror. "On you, unfortunately. FIREBALL!!!"  
  
  
  
The fiery sphere sped at his target and exploded, right in the midst of them. Them never had a chance. They screamed and flailed, some dying within seconds, some lingering, trying to snuff the flames off, none of them possessing the strength to summon magic to their aid. Truly nothing but beginners, only worth his attention because they were so numerous. They were cut down swiftly by the elmekians, who finished them off with a few Freeze Arrows.  
  
Yet Jomekin felt nothing. He had once helped three of these apprentices use the Light Spell and a minor Flare Arrow spell. Yet he felt not a bit of grief over it. What was even more interesting was the voice, which wondered if he shouldn't have trained them a little harder, so that they might have been a small challenge at least. He didn't know if that made him monstrous or not, and he didn't care.  
  
"Its begun." he said. "Follow me!"  
  
  
  
They did, probably feeling that h e was by far the most powerful despite his unnatural looks. Twice they came across bands of lesser sorcerers. Each time, he used the grudging respect they had of him to kill many of them before they could react, weakening the others to the Elmekians' attacks. Only two managed to call upon any magic to protect themselves, and even they didn't last long, their weak shields and spells no match against older, more powerful spellcasters.  
  
Far off, he heard a boom, and voices screaming faintly. Too far to be Mellinius, certainly. That, almost without a doubt, was the invading band, very much alive and doing much damage. He wasn't surprised. If it was the band they'd once fought against, Dallomir, Mellinius and he - the same band from which the experimental chimera came from - it would take more than a few soldiers and some low-level wizards to bring them low.  
  
"The invaders are making quite an impression, it seems. That's good."  
  
"YOU are making quite an impression yourself." the leading Elmekian noted. "You kill swiftly and efficiently. I am certain the Emperor would like to have you."  
  
"No, thank you. I am quite well with the present situation. he replied tersely." It only made the other man more agreeable, if nothing else.  
  
"What present situation? That of being a sorcerer killing for Lumeria? That is no longer an option. You are a member of the Lumerian Guild, but Lumeria is defeated. Its last armies are routed, its royalty killed, its lands seized. Within months, all of this land will belong to the Emperor. What then, sir Jomekin?"  
  
It was a judicious argument, but one which would have to be debated later. "Perhaps. I might give it more thought after we dispose of Dallomir - if we are able."  
  
The Elmekians looked absurdly disbelieving at that. "Surely, if these students are any indication, Dallomir won' be such a threat, with all of use against he."  
  
Now Jomekin permitted himself his small, childlike laugh. It was too much. He knew of Elmekian overconfidence, but this...this went beyond ridicule! He laughed look and hard and then calmed down, turning his voice cynical. "Fools!" he said with as much disdain as he could "Dallomir is more powerful than I am by quite a bit, and that power is helped by some potent ancient artefact. He is, by far, the most dangerous person in this place. Taking him down will be no means be easy. Pray try to keep that in mind!"  
  
"Jomekin!" the cry came from fearful-eyes Mellinius, who was closely followed by many others. He seemed to be in great agitation, but before the manchild could say or do anything, he was grabbed by the shoulders, hard. "Ceipheed protect us, Jomekin! She's escaped! This is all my fault, she's escaped!"  
  
It was said so fast Jomekin barely made it out. "What do you mean? Who has escaped?"  
  
Mellinius told him, and he found himself choking. The words rang in his head, portents of doom echoing. Suddenly, he didn't want revenge on Dallomir. No, something quite terrible would take revenge in his place. He also knew that he would have to escape, for he would be next on that thing's list - if it still had a mind at all and didn't kill everyone in sight.  
  
"Chimera." Mellinius had said. It had been more than enough to set constrict his heart in fear.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Chimera.  
  
Berwen was racing through the stone corridors more swiftly then she ever had before. Had her mind taken the time to fully realize it, she would have felt the change in herself. She would have realized that her strength, speed and energy had been dramatically increased from the merging with Mazoku and Steel Golem essences. She would have found her sight and her hearing quite sharpened as well.  
  
But that didn't matter to Berwen. All that matter was that one word, echoing in her mind filling her with an unfathomable despair...and an indescribable rage.  
  
A chimera. A part of her mind told her that they had been created during the War of Resurrection, and that many of them had become powerful leaders. But the rest told that she would never be human again, that she would be an outcast - a freak to be hunted out and destroyed by soldiers and adventurers. She would be a monster, a hated creature demonized by centuries of song, histories and legendary accounts.  
  
"A freak...no...no...I'm still human, still human...ain't I?" she muttered to herself as she sped down the corridor. "Ain't I?"  
  
She wasn't, she realized yet again, and the rage returned. She had been captured, tortured, and turned into a monster by that bastard, that swine Dallomir! He was the cause of all this, he was, he was! She would find him, and have her revenge upon him. A slow death, yes, that was what she'd give him. Just as he had forced her to endure pain for so long, she would do the same to him, yes!! And then...  
  
Teeth that were too white to be natural shone through as her metallic lips parted in a feral smile. And then, it would be time to get the revenge she wanted even more. The revenge she would have on the friends who had sold her to this fate, the people she had trusted. Dumb Loerik, arrogant Marcus, that sanctimonious Philionel...and then, Fezra.  
  
Oh yes, Fezra especially!  
  
She arrived at an intersection, and had no time to react before three men came in from her left. One was dressed as an apprentice, while two others held pikes in their hands, dressed in leather jerkins. For a fleeting moment, Berwen felt uneasy, definitely self-conscious. Her garments had been destroyed during her transformation, and her mind hadn't thought of dressing from the moment she'd seen her own, new reflection onward.   
  
But the three men didn't seem to notice nor care that she was naked. They were too busy falling back in surprise and horror. "By Ceipheed!" one of the soldiers cried "What is that...that abomination!?!"  
  
"Some devilry from either the red-haired mage or the crazy brunette, no doubt!" the apprentice said fearfully, struggling to summon his weak magics to his aid.  
  
The words, spoken with fear and disgust, pushed everything but the rage way, filling her whole being in a hot bed of pure hate. Her eyes widened, cold and yet blazing, and she found herself reaching towards her own magic without hesitation. "How DARE you! How dare you talk about me as if I was a THING!!"  
  
If they'd gone on their knees and begged forgiveness right then and there, she might have spared their lives. Might. Instead the two soldiers hefted their weapons, and the apprentice summoned his magic. "Back, monster! FREEZE ARROW!!"  
  
As far as freeze arrows went, this one was average, and impacted Berwen's instinctive shield without any damage. She scowled in disdain. Amateur magic. Presumptuous fools! Her own magic gathered quickly at her command. "You call that a magic spell! That's not a freeze arrow! THIS is!! FREEZE ARROW!" The missile sped in all its arcane, deadly beauty, hitting the apprentice with such strength that his shield was rent apart, and he fell dead, covered with magical frost. The two guards froze, wide-eyes, at the display of raw power.  
  
Berwen stared herself. That Freeze Arrow should never have been so powerful, not without her feeling the strain. But it had come easily, and she'd felt NOTHING. Absolutely nothing! As she stood in stunned incomprehension, one of the soldiers charged her with a fear-filled yell, and struck his pike directly at her. She didn't have time to dodge before the steel hit her.  
  
And twisted, curling away like paper. Both the soldiers and she stared at the now useless-pike.  
  
Then she began to laugh. From a small chuckle, it became a cry of pure triumph and hysteria. She understood! She remembered why these things were happening to her! "You fools! Don't you see? I'm a chimera! You can't hurt me!!"  
  
As if to prove her own point, she grabbed the soldier with both hands, and with a swiftness that surprised her even now, she lifted him up and slammed him headfirst into a wall. Blood poured down the wall as she let go, and both pike and body fell to the floor, equally inanimate. That was too much for the other soldier, who uttered a panicked squeal and sped away as fast as he could. Berwen watched him with undisguised, savage amusement.  
  
"Pathetic! Die! FLARE ARROW!!" She let out another hysterical laugh when she saw the projectile hit him, when she saw him writhe in agony. "HAHAHAHA! Tremble, all of you! HAHAHAHAHAHAH! No one can hurt me!" she was filled with the desire to scour these walls clean of live, to crush all those who looked upon her as less than human. It was strong, and nearly overwhelmed her.  
  
But logic stayed her urges, forcing her to rethink. She couldn't go and kill everyone she met. Not only was that reckless, it was positively dangerous. She felt ready to take Dallomir, Marcus or even that damned Fezra on...but surely they would be together. Yes, and she was wise enough to know taking on three sorcerers of that power would be suicidal. Her new body made her far more powerful, but not powerful enough. She would have to find other means to enact her vengeance!  
  
She reminded herself of the fear, horror and disgust those she had killed had showed. Fear didn't bother her, and she could get used to horror in time. But not disgust. To be looked upon as something less, while she was stronger than most already? She refused to accept it! She would no longer allow herself to be seen as anything less. All of her young life, she lived in someone's shadow. First, her late father, then her Guild teachers, then Fezra. Always in someone's shadow, always less, always seen with pity. Disgust was no better. She would find a way to erase both out of her existence!  
  
Her ears heard a shuffling, farther away she could usually hear. She strained. Voices. There were voices, two of them it seemed. They were talking hurriedly, coming her way fast.  
  
And she recognized one of them.  
  
Quickly she hid. If they were there, perhaps that explained the explosions, which had rocked the place only a small while beforehand? Or, more likely, it might simply mean that her so-called friends had decided to go and see if she was still passively awaiting them like some chained animal. Yes, that was probably it. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was of it. She hid in a shadowy corner and waited. Soon, the voices took on a more definite shape.  
  
"Berwen should logically be this way. That is, if this place is built rationally." A man's voice, one she didn't know. "Let's make it quick. Who knows what Dallomir will do with the Forbidden Lores?"  
  
The Forbidden Lores! Berwen had nearly forgotten about them. They were perhaps responsible for her transformation into a chimera. If that was so... A plan started brewing, ideas taking hold on her as possibilities unveiled themselves. Yes, she decided, there were possibilities to be considered. Later though, after she has dealt with them.  
  
A female voice came to her, quick, reeking of forced stability. "Yes, but Fezra was so adamant, did you really want to start arguing with her?"  
  
So that was it. Fezra had come to get her, to use as a weapon no doubt. The knowledge hit her hard, harder than she thought it should have. A part of her, she realized, had clung to the hope that she had been wrong, that what she'd seen, felt and reasoned out would turn out to be erroneous. It wasn't, and the grief that shook her before the hatred surged back was all the more poignant as it was so short yet so strong. She smirked bitterly. So be it. Now it would be her turn to have her own fun!  
  
Two people rushed out of the corridor, not seeing her. One was a slender man she didn't know, the other a woman she knew, or had thought she knew. With a growl, she lurched out of her hiding place, summoning her powers as she gripped his arm from behind before he could react. "MANO BOLT!!!" she growled, willing every once of magic she could into the spell. It did the trick. The man screamed and stiffened, and slumped to the ground. She paid him no mind. He was unimportant. Instead she rushed and grabbed the woman by the throat, and stared into frightened human eyes with her own cold ones.  
  
"Hello, Narie." she said to her captive.  
  
The priestess' eyes widened. "Berwen?!? Is that you??"  
  
"Yes. What you have before you is the new Berwen - stronger, faster, and way nastier." she grinned as a thought struck her. "Let me show you how much, for old times' sake!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Philionel had always been far stronger than the average. No one was quite certain where the girth and muscle came from, although it was suspected that he had inherited it from his mother's side. Although his mother hadn't been built strong, she had often told him her own grandfather had been a giant of a man. Whatever the case, by age twelve, Phil was nearly as tall as a normal adult, and since sixteen he'd seen no one who had shown his own reserve of raw strength and endurance. Not surprisingly, he had been expected to become a warrior-king of sort, much like his brothers Randy and Christopher had been pointed into a religious and a scholarly course respectively.   
  
Randy had adapted to the priesthood well enough it seemed, and Christopher appeared to thrive amongst books and register - he would be a very learned man later. But Phil had never, unlike his brother, liked the path that faith - and his father the king, had set for him. He had learned how to fight from the best hand-to-hand masters inside and outside Sailune, and had become a force of nature. But, in secret, he had taken lectures to augment his knowledge, had scoured the royal library and devoured all the knowledge he could. And finally, to break with the set curriculum life had set him; he'd gone on more and more travels to see the realm he would have to lead for himself.  
  
All these things had made Philionel a man who despised violence, who truly hated having to use it even as he knew he was naturally gifted for it. As the Prince knocked yet another soldier with a solid punch, he flinched at the bitter irony that this battle was - he had to use is talents. He knew it had to be done, that it was necessary.  
  
However, it didn't make it easy. Justice should be served by talking, but it wouldn't work here.  
  
"Phil, behind you!"  
  
Zashtla's warning made him duck instinctively, and a sword nearly decapitated him. He heard the swoosh of air above him, and struck behind him with his right foot, catching his attacker, who huffed as air escaped his lungs. Still under the spell of the chilling fear, the heir to the continent's most prosperous kingdom turned, took the man by his leather armour. With a grunt, barely feeling the effort in his state, he heaved the man off his feet and slugged him as hard as he could.  
  
It was as if the man had received a boulder across the face. He felt as well as heard the crunch of bones cracking and breaking. The man's head snapped backward, teeth flying, mingled with blood. The next instant, his opponent sagged, having lost consciousness. Realizing what he's done, the prince released him to the floor.  
  
Necessary, he told himself. This was necessary - the things happening in this place were insane, dangerous for the safety of his people, indeed of the entire continent. Not only that, but he had a moral obligation to help save a comrade caught months ago by these people. He knew he had to do this. "So why can't I bring myself to forget my aversion?" he wondered.  
  
"What are you mumbling about, darling?" Zashtla inquired.  
  
He saw that the muscular woman was eyeing him. He'd spoken that thought aloud, eh? Drat. "Don't trouble yourself. Just myself trying to deal with personal issues." he said, trying to dismiss the problem.  
  
She wasn't convinced. Double drat. His ability to persuade didn't seem to work on people once he got too close to them. Normally a relief, it was being a pain at times. Like right now. The swordswoman stepped away from the place she'd chosen to defend - no less than five opponents lay in various states at her feet - and came closer to him.  
  
"Come on, Phil. We travelled together a bit. I don't know you as well as Narie or Lionel, but I know enough to see you're not enjoying yourself here!" she stated.  
  
That struck a nerve. Piqued by what was implied, he drew himself up and scowled. "I'll take that as a compliment. Or do you believe that people should like hurting others?"  
  
"That's rather moot here, Phil." she said with a grin that he couldn't quite identify. "Most of the time, I guess its good to dislike having to fight. But do you see any other way?" his jaw tightened, and she sighed. "Look, its not because we like fighting better than you that people like Fezra, Loerik, or me, that we're not feeling better when we DON'T fight!"  
  
Phil was reminded of the times he'd seen Loerik grimace bitterly as he looked at the blade of his powerful magical sword, or when Fezra shook her head sometimes after casting a destructive spell. He had similar images for Marcus and Zashtla, and Hallia seemed nearly as open in disliking violence as he was. Yes, his friends didn't like doing violence to others, but he had never seen them shirk from this task when they had to. He, on the other hand, was pure disquiet every single time he fought. Sometimes outwardly, always inwardly.  
  
With a sigh, he realized that he would always seem reluctant to anyone else who ventured into danger with him. It would make him appear uncertain and unreliable. But even so, he wouldn't change. He wouldn't allow himself to. "You're right...but fighting this brutally is wrong. I have always thought so and Ceipheed willing, I always will."   
  
The discussion suddenly seemed completely out of place. He and Zashtla were supposed to slow down any soldiers coming their way, while Lionel and Narie went to try and rescue Berwen and the rest fought their way to Dallomir and his companions. It didn't seem as if they should be discussing whether or not someone should like to fight or not!  
  
Obviously, the thought hadn't occurred to Zashtla, since she put a hand on his broad shoulder and grinned. "Phil, it's that kind of talks that make you so cute sometimes!" she assured him.  
  
And, before his wits quite caught up with everything, the pulled him down and kissed him quite fully.  
  
It was something, which would have shocked the entire court. It certainly would have had the king in a fit just at the sight. Amidst the shock and buzzing confusion, however, the prince found that straightforward address quite pleasant. He felt hot all over, his blood heated, and he compulsively put his arms around the swordswoman, who responded by nestling close to him.  
  
Even as the mature part of his mind remonstrated him in a voice that sounded achingly like his mother's, the part, which still acted only on instinct, felt the need to keep holding this woman, to keep kissing her. It was worth a hundred travels around the continent, worth a thousand crowns of gold. He wondered if he would feel that way when Valmatia and he-  
  
The name of his future wife had barely passed through his mind like a morning fog, he had barely glimpsed the classical-mannered, beautiful woman who seemed not to despise him like so many in the court had done behind his back, that he felt like struck by a thunderbolt. All desires left him, and he gently disengaged himself. "I'm sorry, Zashtla. I-that's not the way I want things to be." Gods, his lips still burned from that kiss!  
  
He didn't know exactly what he expected, but it certainly wasn't to see Zashtla shrug as if it didn't matter that much. "Phil, you take these things too seriously, anyone ever told you that?"  
  
"I fail to see the relevance...."  
  
"I'm a mercenary. I did that to many people. Friends, often. I did that to Loerik twice, and to Marcus once. Youre the first who took it that badly." she explained, then patted him. "I suppose its because you've never seen the mercenary life. Sorry Phil."  
  
He bit back an angry retort. How callous she sounded. But he reminded himself that he didn't know the life she had led. It was more than possible that Loerik and Marcus had reacted better because of their wider experience of the outside world, but he simply wasn't like that. And it by no mean justified arousing him...like...like some common peasant! He smirked at himself. So much for thinking of myself as a normal man, he thought.  
  
But he never had the chance to discuss it. Other people were coming this way - many, heavy feet, which they'd have to stop. Only moments had passed, but it seemed hours to Phil now. He felt terribly tired - by the idea of fighting people, and by the idea that his friends saw him as a stuffed, traditional man.   
  
Zasthla, it seemed, saw things quite differently. She grinned and looked at the direction of the sound. "Time to do our job! To work, friend!" she said, hefting her sword. Phil had no choice but to get ready for it, even as the cries came nearer. Gods, how unfocused and confused he felt. His lips still burned, his mind still whirled, and his conscience still prickled him forcefully.  
  
"Maybe I'm not adventure material after all." he said mournfully.  
  
And with that, Crown Prince Philionel di Sailune went back to a fighting he hated and excelled at. In the name of justice. Always in the name of justice.  
  
Always?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four against forty. Ten-to-one odds. It wasn't something people could relish, much less walk away from. Yet that was exactly the odds that Fezra's group was facing - thirty-two elite soldiers, probably the cream of the cream in the place, all in chain mail and longswords, and eight full sorcerers. None was nearly as powerful as herself or Marcus, but all eight together did pose a significant challenge.  
  
That was perfect as far as Fezra was concerned.  
  
"Looks like we've been invited to one big party." she said, shifting her stance slightly as the soldiers moved to surround them, flanking the sorcerers. Behind her, she heard Hallia's voice, beginning to chant a protection spell. Just to the side, she heard a click and a heavy, metallic thud, signalling the fall of Loerik's steel blade. She grinned widely - her friends were all used to dogfights, and took this present ordeal with almost casual calm.  
  
Beside her, Marcus shifted, and she could almost feel the confidence and mirth coming in waves from his person. "Yeah, a damn shame I didn't bring my best suit." he noted.  
  
"I think you look good in that suit. Compliments your red hair." she quipped.  
  
"Really?" he shifted, almost certainly striking a pose. "I always thought light blue suited me better."  
  
"Nah. Black's definitely you."  
  
A chuckle came from Loerik. "I swear, you guys are just too weird when you fight. Let's get to it, you blokes! LIGHT COME FORTH!" She heard as well as felt the roar of the magical blade's great energies pouring out and forming, and many of the soldiers and sorcerers, already edgy to face a group which had fought its way to Dallomir's chambers relatively quickly, looked even less certain. She summoned her magical energies. The battles against small groups along the way had taken its toll, but they came swiftly enough still. She put her hands in front of herself, grin still wide, eyes sparked with excitement.  
  
"Well? Your heard the man - attack!" a pause "Don't want to? Too bad! DIEM WIND!!!"  
  
The magical wind blasted six of the man directly into the wall, rendering them either dazed or unconscious. Next to her, Marcus did the same, catching a few others himself, pushing them to the other side. The rest stumbled back even as the sorcerers muttered their incantations. It was that moment of hesitation that cost them. With a wild yell, Loerik was amongst them, striking down two before anyone could react, his blade flashing menacingly as it cut through steel, flesh and bone as a knife through hot butter. That level of intensity couldn't be maintained for long, but it wouldn't take the swordsman a long time to throw the attacking armsmen and soldiers off-balance. Fezra turned her full attention towards the sorcerers...  
  
Only to have them let loose a barrage of flare arrows and fireballs.  
  
Cursing herself for the lapse in judgement, Fezra vainly struggled to augment her natural shield, knowing it was too late. The projectiles streaked towards them, and struck an invisible barrier. The sorceress heard a gasp behind her, then a thud, and gritted her teeth. Hallia. She had poured everything into that shield, and had barely managed to hold off the destructive force. They wouldn't have anyone who could stand in their way if they tried such an attack again.  
  
Not that she intended them to have that chance. Quickly, she summoned a Flare Arrow, even as a bright, greenish Elmekia Lance struck one of the enemy head on. Marcus was using the reprieve Hallia had given them as much as he could himself. She let loose her own projectile, felling another opponent, but not quite knocking him out. Behind her, Loerik and the soldiers yelled and clashed, and one, then another thud was heard.   
  
Marcus's shield was suddenly hit by two fireballs, and he went to his knees, holding his head. Two of the sorcerers closed in for the kill, chanting, even as the other four concentrated on her. Marcus!! Fear gripped her heart, and she desperately tried to find way out of the mess she'd been caught in to help him. She could take those four, but it'd take too long, too long...oh Marcus!  
  
But her feelings went through quite a different phase when the two enemies came near him. He lifted his head grimly, brought both hands up and summoned a red ball of energy. Before any of his opponents could react, he brought it forward and shouted "FIREBALL!" The great sphere took them both, as they had come too close for their own shield to be effective. Marcus struggled to his feet, panting, and gave a determined glare despite his smoking garments.  
  
"Come on!" he panted "Plenty more where it came from!"  
  
And there was. As behind them, minor shifts in magic and yells of surprise told Fezra that Hallia hadn't been knocked out of the fight, Marcus and she fought down the last four sorcerors. The four of them were unsettled by the odds shifting against them, but fought to defend themselves most tenaciously. Three times Fezra narrowly avoided a dangerous spell, and by the time the last of the four fell to one of Marcus' spells, she felt drained, her magical energies ebbing. It was only then that she went to see how her other friends fared.  
  
They had survived, it seemed. Loerik was slumped against a wall, hand clutching Hallia's shoulder as the dazed priestess worked her healing powers to tend the wounds he received. None of them were lethal, but some - especially one on the leg - were nasty. Seeing the anguish on her friend's face, Fezra forced her fatigue aside and poured her own, lesser Recovery spell, followed by Marcus a few moments later.  
  
She surveyed around her. Some soldiers had fled, but most lay there, dead or moaning, certainly out of the fight for a good long while. "Nice job there, Loerik." she remarked.  
  
"Yeah...thanks...that was a piece of work here." Even as he spoke, the tension on his face healed as his worst wounds closed. "They had some training, but I'm used to meeting soldiers that have been fighting pitched battle for years. With the Sword of Light, I could swing it. You deserve more for blasting those mages off. Marcus, you sure worried me for a moment there, when those spells hit you."  
  
"That's right! How did you manage to shrug off the spells?" Fezra queried. She wouldn't allow herself to say more. The fear she'd felt over seeing him helpless and unable to help him still held sway on her, and she didn't dare let herself indulge in the feeling. Later, maybe, but not now. Right now, stopping Dallomir was the only thing she could truly think of.  
  
As an answer, Marcus showed the bracelet he was wearing, the Forbidden Lore given to them by Sai Lune's spirit. "This. It negated a good deal of the spell. Enough that they only shook me instead of hurting me. I guess that was one way of testing it."  
  
Fezra looked at her own. "These might be useful after all."  
  
Hallia finally looked up, sighing tiredly. "I suppose that was the point. There, I've treated the worst injuries. How are you feeling?" she asked her husband carefully.  
  
The swordsman grunted, gripping his bladeless sword hilt and rising. "I've been better." he admitted "But I've been way worse. I'll be okay."  
  
"Do you think they found Berwen?" Fezra asked, and Marcus shrugged.  
  
"Well, Lionel and Narie should be able to find her, I think. If she's here." he said at length.   
  
Fezra sighed. Ever since they'd entered the place, she'd been worried about Berwen. She had always managed to push the thoughts aside until now. She'd never given much thought to the things that her friend - her childhood friend! - was going through with such people. She felt immensely guilty about that, and didn't probe too much about what kind of person that might make of her.  
  
"Berwen? I assure you, you'll see her before long."  
  
They all jumped at the voice, and all turned to see a man approaching. Middle-aged, garbed in the intricate robes of an archmage, he was striding towards them with eyes that were too wide, and too bloodshot, to be entirely normal. His gait and manner as well as the voice were unmistakable. But that wasn't what hit her so hard.  
  
"Dallomir." she growled, sensing the other readying themselves, Hallia and Marcus both tensing as they felt what she had. His aura, it was so...strong. So...abnormal. She gritted her teeth in the grim realization that he had probably augmented his powers through the Lores he'd taken from the ancient elven temple ruins.  
  
"Yes. I have been watching you." he said with a grin that spoke of maddened delight. "Let me welcome you to my home fittingly!"  
  
Fezra only smiled - the Inverse smile her family had become infamous for in the face of grave danger. Yeah, he was strong, but if he thought they'd be lying down easily, he was about to be awfully surprised.  
  
"Bring it on, old geezer." she said, readying herself. "Let's see what you've got!"  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Chimeras: Constructs made from merging different species into one being. Highly controversial in itself, and expressly forbidden to use on humans. Lei Magnus in the War of Resurrection first created human chimeras. Following that War, the few spells permitting the change were hidden, sealed or otherwise destroyed by the victorious human, elven and dragon heroes. One manuscript is rumoured to be inside the Magic Guild of Zefielia, heavily warded by spells erected by Oerlue the Silent and Falana of the Five Winds and strengthened in the intervening centuries. As with most Forbidden Lores locations, this is highly conjectural. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Magic.   
  
Magic came to Man in many ways. We created Shamanism out of our base knowledge of the heart and the Soul. White Magic came from the Elves who, although long users of its healing and light powers, learned it from the Golden Dragons before human history began to be recorded. Black Magic came from the Mazoku, who wished to corrupt Man, but found its basic will too erratic to truly succeed.  
  
Magic. Has there ever been a greater boon? And a greater threat?  
  
  
  
- Excerpt from Oerlus the Silent's Adress to Sorcerers, 17 AR  
  
Chapter Fifteen  
  
Marcus Jaderam was by no means a novice in spellcasting, even though he was barely reaching his nineteenth summer as it was. An hard youth, a keen mind and an innate ability to understand some of magic's basic works had made him a full-fledge sorcerer in four years where it took most at least ten. He was already more powerful than many of his elders, and had taken to refining his skills through research and travels.  
  
In said travels, he had met his share of enemies who had challenged his skills and wits. Raving wizards who'd lost their minds, dangerous undead, bands of monsters of many kinds. He'd met many sorts and had come out on top. Only Fezra had been found to be his match in a magical brawl.  
  
But then he'd never been up against a powerful sorcerer who'd been augmented by human, elven and draconian devices from ancient and desperate times. Suddenly, he found his skills tested as they'd never been before.  
  
The entire, multi-towered castle seemed to vibrate, shake and groan under the magical maelstrom created by the three who fought. Already, primal lightning and fire had erupted from skilled hands, words of power had been shouted on both sides, creating forces capable of ripping the average man to bloody pieces within a bare moment, only to impact on great magical shields.   
  
He and Fezra were doing their very best, fighting as they'd never had to before. One created a powerful spell while shielded by the other when doing battle. Both linked their shields when an especially powerful spell hit. Both hit with a spell when Dallomir seemed to weaken a moment. Loerik and Hallia were still in the fight themselves, but even Hallia's healing and protection and Loerik's powerful magic blade and immense skill couldn't quite measure up in a fight between Black Magic users. Still they fought on, the swordsman rushing and striking, the priestess healing and reinforcing the protection spell.  
  
Their combined forces were very potent, and Marcus knew that he himself would have fallen against such a display. But Dallomir still held his own and bit more, seemingly inexhaustible, often attacking.  
  
Presently, the older mage managed to shrug off one of Fezra's ice lances; his eyes alight in maddened triumph, gathering negative, black energy. "Don't you see? You can't destroy me! The artefacts of the War of Resurrection have made me too powerful for you! ZELIAS BLEED!"  
  
None of the four was suicidal. All had excellent reflexes. They threw themselves flat on the ground, the great energy beam slicing the air above, the energies shattering stone, wood and mortar with no difficulty.  
  
Marcus jumped up to his feet even as the beam had gone, chanting quickly, remembering words. "By the powers of the infinite Fires, from the Elements of the Scorching Sun. Burn in ages, struck in rage! BRAM GASH!!!"  
  
Marcus had always been skilled at fire shamanism. It had been a close second to his black magic abilities. His minded couldn't escape the irony of it. His mother had, after all, been a fire shaman, and had been burned alive by superstitious, ignorant, backwater townsfolk who knew only of the crazed madness and destruction a few had wrought.  
  
This was one of the reason he let fly his magical, fiery beam with such strength. Dallomir and his ilk were what gave wizards such a dangerous reputation. It was because of people like him that he'd been forced to watch his own mother burn while his own father looked on approvingly! His hatred made only grew from his inner turmoil, and it made his black magic more powerful as it drank from his anger and pain.  
  
At the exact same moment, Fezra screamed her own Bram Gash. Marcus was surprised. Although good in three of the four shamanist elements, Fezra was a master of Air, and casting such a high-level fire spell was draining. It was the last thing he expected her to do.  
  
Fortunately, it had quite an effect. The two beams melded, becoming a force easily greater than anything Dallomir had thrown so far. It hit the mage, and for the first time the crazy wizard screamed in pain, as his shield found itself unable to turn all the energy back. About time, even augmented by the bracelet, Marcus hadn't been able to defend against some attacks, and he bore burn marks, wounds and frost bites as a result.   
  
It didn't last, however. The sorcerer regained his footing almost at once, and growled out a response, gathering his own energies and unleashing them in a torrent of power. Not a spell there, only energy that hit them both, throwing them away, freezing and burning at the same time, overriding all shields. He didn't hear anything but his own scream of pain, didn't feel anything but searing agony. It took a long moment to realize he was on the floor of the expansive passageway. He saw that Fezra was also out on her back, twitching, also trying to regain her control.  
  
The sorcerer took a step towards them, but before he could utter another word, Loerik crashed into him, his magical blade slamming again and again against the magical shield. So quick was it that the sorcerer had to step again and again, until finally he threw a bolt of energy which sent the swordsman to his knees. A mad, pain-filled smile tore Dallomir's features as he raised a hand against the swordsman. Marcus forced his body to move, but it was too slow, too late.  
  
"Poor fool! You think that using the Garunova is enough to take me down? Such childish conceit!" he smiled as energy gathered in his hand. "Now I'll-" his confident sentence ended in a gasp of pure agony. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he looked down to his side, shivering from a new impact.  
  
There stood Hallia, who'd taken advantage from Loerik's attack and managed to drive her dagger deep into the mad sorcerer's side. Blood flood on its metal and to the floor, and yet she kept driving it deeper, eliciting another cry of pain from the surprised spellcaster. Marcus and Fezra unsteadily forced themselves to their feet.  
  
His eyes wide, Dallomir turned to Hallia and grabbed her by the throat, holding her at arms' length "You...you bitch! You-AAAAAAAAAGH!!"  
  
The shock and fury had made the archwizard careless. For a moment, his shields had failed, and he had turned away from Loerik. It was a bare instant - one more and his defences would have been back. Loerik, however, took the instant, slicing off the older man's arm above the elbow. Blood gouted all three, and Hallia forced the dead member off, shoving it away. The sorcerer screamed again, stump bleeding profusely, and gave a laugh that was pure madness, caught between hilarity and rage. His shield went back up. Weaker, much weaker.  
  
It was all they needed. Marcus forced his power to respond and sent attack spell against attack spell, Fezra doing the same, while the swordsman struck the shield dauntingly quickly. Even Hallia managed a few minor spells.  
  
No shield this weak could hold forever under that onslaught. Pressed from all sides, Dallomir's defences began to buckle. He growled and cursed at them, and finally thrust his good arm into a pocket, fishing a strange medallion. He grinned, his lips and the light in his eyes showing beyond a doubt that the man's last marbles were crumbling.  
  
"I won't die here! I won't die here! My destiny awaits, and I must grasp it! Soon my creation will destroy you!" he grasped the medallion "Ankathu-Deluk Nakaft! Erulk Nabirenen!" His body flashed once, then twice, and in a burst of light, he was gone.  
  
"NO!!" Marcus growled. "We had him! We've got to finish him off NOW!!" he knew from the look Fezra and Loerik both gave him that he spoke with unusual blood thirst, but he didn't care. "His quarters have to be near this place. Lets look for it!"  
  
Fezra nodded, still giving him that odd look. "Right. Time to settle the score!" she gave Hallia, who still retched from Dallomir's death grip, a look. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Y-yes..." the priestess answered, then coughed again fitfully. "Eventually...go ahead...I'll be alright."  
  
"I'll stay here and help her. You two can handle him now, I think." Loerik stated. From his tone, there was no budging him from the green-haired woman's side. They didn't try.  
  
Fezra nodded, a gleeful look crossing her face. "Don't worry! Leave it to us! Come on, Marcus! Lets take care of that mad dog once and for all!" She slapped him on the rump - momentarily subsuming his anger for embarrassment - and sped off towards the end of the long hall.  
  
He didn't waste time, catching up to her. It was time indeed. For Berwen. For his mother. For all those people like Dallomir had hurt and destroyed through their evil.   
  
Yes, it was time to even the score a bit.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Lionel returned to consciousness wondering what had hit him. His mind was a whirl, he couldn't think right. He felt around himself, eyes closed, and realized that he was flat on his back, upon solid flagstones. He groaned, grasping his head. There was something unnatural, grasping at the corner of his mind. It seemed to somewhat scrambled the feel he had of his own magic. That told him all he needed to know.  
  
'Magic spell, that's what hit me. Mano Bolt, most likely." He winced as remaining stiffness worked itself out of his muscles. 'A pretty powerful version of the spell, if the ache I'm feeling is any indication.'  
  
But who had done it? He looked around himself. Except for himself, he was alone. No sign of his attacker. He shook his head and struggled to his feet. Its fortunate, he supposed, that no one had come and seen his unconscious form. But then, why would someone go to all this trouble to knock him out, if only to...  
  
That's when it truly hit. He glanced around. "Narie?" he called once, then a second time, more strongly. No response. Nothing. He felt a chill run up his spine. He had been running with Narie. Could it have been her? He searched his memory for the events, which had led to his incapacitated state. She was running just slightly behind him...  
  
No, he decided. His senses on those last moments were becoming clearer. The attack had come quickly, unexpectedly, and from his other side. In any event, he doubted Naries had the ability to cast a Mano Bolt strong enough to incapacitate him with one blow. No, the one who'd done it - whoever or whatever it was - was a far more powerful creature. Which only made him worry about his friend more.  
  
Lionel Greysword was a cold, analytical man - a fact he'd felt didn't endear him to his companions much. He hated surprises and the unexpected, and that was what he was facing right darn now. Consequently, he cursed, before rearranging his thoughts. First, find Narie. Second, deal with whatever had taken Narie. Third, if any time remained, find Berwen. He nodded. That would work.  
  
"Good job!" he told himself wryly "And how do I find Narie at all? Follow some arrows? Use a compass?" He couldn't help but chuckled at the ridicule in his own notions, then concentrated on the problem at hand.  
  
He couldn't simply pick a direction. This place was much too large, and searching every room would consume too much of his time. And although sounds of battle didn't resound in the area - except for a few bodies farther on, he saw no indication of further violence - he was willing to believe that some soldiers still roamed around, and he was in no condition to pull of a fight against too many of them. Not yet, at any rate.  
  
Which left...  
  
Which left Magesight, he supposed with great reluctance. It was a spell that allowed to feel the living mana within a body. His master Rezo hadn't created the spell itself, but had made it more effective to aid in his magical research, and he had taught Lionel and his own daughter - who happened to be Lionel's fiancée - about it. He had never been proficient in its use at all, unlike some other spells. But what other choice did he have?  
  
He sighed. None, he supposed.  
  
Looking around to make certain no one would be looking - or attacking - for the present - the apprentice then closed his eyes, murmuring words of power, summoning the little of white magic he had to help him. "Mana, life of life, link from the Gods to the Mortals, open my sight to your vibrancy, let it show through this trance." Carefully he repeated the words, feeling the magic congeal, and a headache forming. Still he continued, as he had been taught.  
  
It eventually worked, if barely. He couldn't feel every living magic in the castle-like, multi- towered, description defying building. But he could feel larger ones. He could feel two very large magical forces moving. One standing still, one in the midst of a spell. Two larger ones further off. Friends, foes? He couldn't tell, but they were on the other side of him completely, and that struck him as unlikely that whoever had taken Narie would bring her to such a place that had been or certainly would be a battlefield soon. It didn't fit.  
  
Then he felt it. Farther off. Down two further corridor. A magical force, relatively weak, logically placed away from any of the fighting. He opened his eyes and nodded. Yes, that should be it, he decided, setting off.  
  
It didn't take long for him to find the bodies. Many bodies, nearly a dozen, burned to a crisp. No, he realized with a lurch of his stomach. No, not totally burned. They had been burned strongly, each of theses soldiers, enough so that armour and flesh melted into each other. But the flesh hadn't gone completely, and the position each body was found in spoke of unbelievable agony.  
  
None of his friends had done this. They didn't have that cruelty in them. Whatever had done this was angry. Very angry. Shivering, Lionel called to mind his strongest earth-based spells, the ones he was most proficient with, words of power on his lips, the power surging within him.  
  
It was only when he had made a few steps, looking over the bodies with disgusted, analytical eyes, that he heard a noise. It seemed to have come from just next to him. In a closed room. He felt Goosebumps on his skin, and turned towards the door. "Who's there?" he asked, and winced at the inane question. There was no answer. He hadn't truly expected one, either. He hesitated before opening the door.  
  
Then he heard more thumps, and a muffled scream in a voice he recognized hesitation went out the window. Steeling himself for a possible confrontation with the power, which had killed these soldiers so horribly; he opened the door, spells ready.  
  
He stopped when he saw the scene. His Magesight had been right, it seemed. He had found Narie, and it froze him.  
  
She was tied to a chair and struggling mightily against her bounds. Her mouth had been stuffed with some tissue or such, and she could only muster some muffled, desperate cries. But, as ugly the scene itself might have been, that wasn't what stopped him and turned every drop of blood in his body to ice. What did was her lack of response to his presence. She didn't stop, her eyes, so wide he thought they would pop out of their sockets, never settled on him.  
  
He reached her quickly, trying to hold on to her. As he touched her, he felt it. Something magical and insidious. He didn't have to look for what it might be - he'd studied those quite well, and was rather proficient in them, although he'd never used one and never intended to.  
  
"Dragon Kings help her," he breathed "A Suggestion spell in her state!"  
  
Suggestion spells were tricky business, pulled off only by the very skilled or very powerful. It implanted an event within a person's mind, and for its duration all a person saw, heard and felt was what had been implanted. It usually didn't work on those who had a very strong will or a completely stable mind. But Narie, he had known, was only tenuously hanging on to stability, while her will had received a terrible blow. She was a perfect target for this.  
  
He pulled out the tissue stuffing her mouth, and she immediately screamed. It was an inarticulate scream of fear, rage and despair, and was tinted with slivers of what could only be madness. "STOP! PLEASE STOP!" Was all he could manage to hear in these, and he knew with a sinking heart whoever had done this had struck well. Her composure was shattered, her stability annihilated. Analytical though he may be, it struck him hard, and left him bare.  
  
Finally, unable to stop her ranting with gentle words, he called upon a little magic and sent a Sleep spell through her. The screaming subsided, and she stopped struggling, only jerking here and there. As she did, however, she said something he didn't want to hear. "Berwen...stop...stop..."  
  
The last sentence she uttered before collapsing kept him thinking for many minutes. Berwen? Wasn't that the woman they'd come here to save? Could it be that whoever had done this had used Berwen in the vision. He shook his head. There was no relationship between Berwen and Narie, so that was illogical. Which left him with two options. The first was that it had come as a fluke, taken from the mission that had probably been present in Narie's mind when she'd been Suggested. The second was more probable, even though he tried to shy away from it.  
  
His so-analytical, logical, cursed mind didn't let him. The third possibility was simple: Berwen had done this. Had Suggested Narie, had killed those men in such a horrible fashion. He didn't like the implications. But they were there.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dallomir's mind raved as he struggled to overcome nausea even as the teleportation spell faded. His hand was still clutching the bleeding stump which had once held his forearm, and he felt warm blood gouting between his finger. Already he was weakened by it, and that added to the magical drain he'd put himself through against those runts had created more than a little problem.  
  
He feverishly cast his strongest Recovery spell, even as he raged. This couldn't possibly be happening to him! He had uncovered some of the Lores's secrets, and that alone should have made him invincible! It was impossible that some - some ignorant CHILDREN could hurt him in such a way, and yet...  
  
He'd gone to meet them and face them in full confidence in his own capabilities. Augmented as he was, his spells should have cut them to shreds. But they hadn't, curse it all! He'd felt why soon enough - bracelets the two children-sorcerers wore had auras he recognized, powerful auras, which were, designed to counter the forces he was putting into play. How these ignorant runts had managed to find to such powerful artefacts was beyond him and was irrelevant. All that he knew was that the fight had turned much harder than it should have been.  
  
Still, he'd been winning, until that freakish, green-haired priestess had stabbed him. Stabbed him! How DARE she?!? And then that swordsman - that murderous cur! - had struck at him, and cut off his arm! Curse them, curse them, curse them! That wasn't that way it was supposed to be! He was supposed to be invincible! That was what she'd said!  
  
"That was what you said!" he howled, "You lied to me! You lied to me!" he glared at the portrait of a lovely blonde woman garbed in robes, the portrait he had always kept in his sanctum. Without thinking he stretched his arm and forced himself to summon his magic, sending gout of flame to consume it. "YOU LIED TO ME, YOU BITCH!!"  
  
"How the mighty has fallen. The great Archwizard Dallomir of Lumeria has become nothing more than a pathetic wretch, it seems."  
  
Dallomir could only whirl, his disbelief growing, his fractured mind uncomprehending as he stared at half a dozen men, one of whom he recognized as Mellinius, the rest he didn't know. It was one of these unknown men who had spoken. His eyes widened at the gall these men had. "Who are you? How dare you?!? Mellinius, who are these men."  
  
The younger mage stayed silent. Whatever remained of the mage's calm frayed. "I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, MELLINIUS! WHO ARE THESE TRESSPASSERS!?!"  
  
"We can tell you that ourselves." the obvious leader of that band of rogues said with a smirk. "Dallomir of the Cyan, Archwizard of the now-defunct Lumerian Guild, you have been found guilty of consorting with powers forbidden in the Laws of the Known World. By order and will of the Imperial Sceptre of Elmekia, you are condemned to pay the price for your sins." the formality, faked as it was, went away as the smirk returned. "The sentence as decreed by His Imperial Majesty and the Elmekian Guild is death."  
  
Dallomir's eyes shifted to Mellinius. "You. You betrayed me!"  
  
The other man flinched, but remained firm. "It had to be done. Jomekin also agrees," his face stonewalled a moment "Although he decided not to take part in this engagement."  
  
Betrayers and defiler that was what they all were! They wanted to kill him, and were so very smug about it. But a part of his mind cut through the confused ranting, and he remembered. He remembered what was at his comment and chuckled. "Fools! I have something that none of you may defeat! Appear before me, ye creature bound to my will. Chimera of the ancient days, I hold you to Lei Magnus' Order, and Command you! His Forbidden Lore devices activated, working as they were ordered to, and worked a teleportation.  
  
"NO!!" Mellinius started to summon a fireball to stop him, but the fool was too late. Before the energy coalesced, before any of these assassins, in all their smugness, reacted, his weapon had appeared, a female form of reddish metallic skin and long, spiky, blood red hair. Her traits had become far sharper because of the demonic essence in the conversion, and she was a fearsome sight now, having nothing to do with the average spellcaster she had been. Dallomir exulted, his madness carrying into a joy he had never experienced.  
  
"Now pay the price. Kill them all, my minion!" he told the chimera, which turned to face the horror-struck Mellinius and the suddenly wary sorcerous assassins.  
  
"As you command, Master." it said dutifully, and attacked.  
  
And she did, faster than any human could match. She struck with a powerful lightning spell before any could prepare, striking one man dead in one swift moment, Then concentrated against Mellinius, who frantically attacked her with his spells. A fireball washed over he shield, and she dodged a frantic Elmekia Lance, responding by throwing a Burst Rondo at the lesser sorcerers to keep them from helping, and moved in close, a feral smile on her lips.   
  
She dodged a last spell, grabbed the man's arm, and kicked him three times in the belly. So hard the blows made the body convulse. Mellinius went down moaning and gasping, but already it had dismissed him, moving on to the five lesser spellcasters, and engaged them all in battle.  
  
The fight was decidedly one-sided. Although it was clear that the assassins were skilled enough, they had fought to get where they were, and so they were tired, their magic drained. The chimera, however, had magic to spare, and combined the dexterity of a human, with the reflexes of a Mazoku, as well as the stamina of a steel Golem. The result was astounding, and deadly.  
  
One of the assassin fell to a point blank Flare Arrow of great power, while another, his shield breached, received a punch that broke his neck. The other three started to pour magic attacks against her, and she responded in kind. Energies, flared, sparks of power screamed against magical shields. She staggered, recovered, killed one, staggered more, managed to recover, and killed another, until only the leader of the band remained. That once, realizing what would happen, tried to flee, only to receive three successive Elmekia Lances in the back, blowing him to bloody parts. The Chimera stepped to the gasping Mellinius, and Dallomir moved closer in relish.  
  
"Yes, that's it! Kill him, too!" the chimera didn't budge, and he stepped closer. "Didn't you hear me?!? Kill him!! He must-"  
  
That was his mind, exhilarated, saw the smile on the Chimera's face, and he only had the time to see the evil in that expression that he was grabbed by the throat. "Treachery! You cannot do this to me!" he gasped, struggling.  
  
"Oh, but I can!" the thing said with an amused undertone. "You created me, but someone messed you spell up a bit, so I still have my will." the grip tightened "And I remember the beatings you had the guards do to me, I remember the humiliation. And mostly I remember the transformation. For that alone, you'll die."  
  
"No..." he gasped. This couldn't be happening. Nothing was right, no, no! "I cre--urrk--created you!"  
  
"Yes." the traitorous freak said, "You did. And I'll be certain to remember that when I become something the world will always remember! Thank you very much, 'Father'!"  
  
And with that, the pressure became too much. Dallomir, tried to fight, tried to curse, but had too little energy. In a moment of sanity, just before the blackness took him, he realized what the Chimera intended.  
  
And begged forgiveness even as the thing he had created killed him in savage joy and release.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Fezra frowned darkly when she saw the doors leading to Dallomir's private chambers. It could be nothing else - the doors were intricately carved, mostly with runes of warding. She noted from the gleam that the runes were inlaid with silver, and that the door was actually made out of Denzer's Oak, a rare breed of tree which was reputed to be the best at holding latent spells. It was found only in two small areas - the Zefielian Guatev Forest and the Dorolik Grove in Dils. As such, it cost a small fortune. Yes, this had to be it.  
  
"Pretty pricey outfit." she muttered.  
  
"Not to mention the wards themselves. You noticed?" her companion stated.  
  
She nodded. Although most of the wards were made up of human sigils, some she recognized as elven, and she didn't quite know what two of them meant. Draconian, maybe. Or Mazoku. Anything was possible. "We'll need to be very cautious before we get that bastard." she mused, and concentrated upon the wards, feeling them out.  
  
She felt nothing. Where she should have found some magical residue of power emanating from the door itself, she found nothing but disjointed bits of magic. There was no resistance, and the door seemed to hide no great strength in itself. She frowned, and probed deeper, surveying the magic. Only then did she see a pattern. She opened her eyes, and stared at the equally surprised expression of the man beside her.  
  
"Open. Nothing forced. It was opened. The wards were disengaged."  
  
He looked at the door. "Doesn't make sense. He should know we were coming soon. Something's up here. Someone who knew the words for the wards must have passed here not long ago. I don't like it one bit."   
  
Neither did Fezra, actually. Walking in to fight against a madman was dangerous enough, but they knew said madman was terribly wounded, and they knew how to fight him if need be. This, however, had suddenly become an unknown situation. Even if the mage hadn't called in reinforcements, it could mean that at least the other two they had fought before would be there. And in the state both young sorcerers were, it could well be deadly.  
  
After considering a moment, she shrugged, and stepped towards the door. "We don't have much choice, do we?" she asked with all the daring she could muster in her eyes. Marcus hesitated then grumbled something and sighed, before going to join her.  
  
"Sure." he said "We've been suicidal thus far, why not keep it up?" he grumbled, but his eyes were bright, and she nudged him gently before her face became serious once more. Steeling herself, preparing her magic, she opened the door.  
  
The stench hit them first. It was a stench adventuring had made her quite knowledgeable about. It was the stench of burnt flesh, and of blood drying. It was the stench of death, in all of its macabre glory. Seeing the bodies - broken, burnt, dead - came at no surprise to her. Still, bile rose in her mouth, and she fought it down bitterly. Death was never beautiful, and finding it out of the heat of battle always came as a shock.  
  
But it wasn't the bodies of the dead, which caused her - and Marcus it seemed - to stiffen and call up their powers. Rather, it was movement, from the shadows on the right. Someone had been watching them!  
  
"I'm glad you made it to this little party, Fezra." said a voice she thought she recognized. No, it was that voice, but why was it so...cold...so...sharp?  
  
So malevolent?  
  
"Berwen?" she asked breathlessly.  
  
"Partly. Most of me, maybe." a giggle "I don't know anymore. Not sure I care anymore. Wanna see the change?" And as she said this, she stepped out of the shadows.  
  
Fezra heard Marcus's sharp intake of breath, and she gaped in horror. Berwen was dressed in a robe that was too big for her, but that didn't matter to her eyes. What did was the blood-red metallic hair, the equally metal-like skin which had also acquired some reddish hue. Her face's traits had tightened, giving her a severe, dangerous look. And her brown eyes had given way to black pinpoints surrounded by deep red colour. She was a frightening sight, and one she knew from her histories and her research.  
  
"Gods," she gasped "Berwen, what has he done?!?"  
  
Her friends' look changed then, going from tense and amused to stark furious. "Don't act all innocent, Fezra! You KNOW what this is! I'm a Chimera, friend! A freak! Don't you try to insult me further! Not after all of you did! You owe me! You all owe me!" she looked down "Except for you, sweet Mellinius. You're a sweetheart for not pulling the whole spell at me, you know that?"  
  
She looked down, and what Fezra had thought to be another body twitched. It wasn't dead at all, it seemed. Rather, clothes had been tightly woven around the person, preventing speech and movement. The figure moaned, and Berwen went to almost gently pat where the head was. "There, there. We'll be off soon. Just a few moments more."  
  
"Berwen." she said, not liking the light she saw in her old friend's eyes. "We came to save you! I'm so sorry we took so long, but we couldn't just-" she was cut off as the controlled hostility she had felt from her friend from the beginning erupted.  
  
"NO, FEZRA!! NO MORE EXCUSES!" she growled, her eyes flashing, "I know what you did. You gave me away to be with that pretty boy next to you! You sold me away to Dallomir to be his slave!!"  
  
"What the heck?!?" Marcus blurted half-angrily "What the HELL are you talking about! We bled to come here! We all risked ourselves to get you back!"  
  
"There's no way I'd leave you behind!" Fezra protested, but she saw that the chimera in front of her didn't believe a word of it, as Berwen's face scrunched up in pure fury.  
  
"ENOUGH!" her face turned from hot to cold, and with a chill Fezra finally wondered about Berwen's stability. "I won't have that anymore. You hear me? I won't have that. Once, I didn't believe, but I finally saw you for the selfish bitch you always were. All of you, my 'comrades', worked to make me into this - something no human will ever like. But I'll pay you back. Oh yes. I'll pay you all back!" she grinned in triumphant malice. "Narie's the one I hated the least. I already took care of her."  
  
Cold seeped in Fezra's being at the blatant implications. "Narie? What have you done to her?" she asked, but her query went unanswered, and unacknowledged.  
  
"As for being an outcast, I assure you it won't work. I make you this pledge here and now, Fezra: in the end, the world'll speak of me. They'll speak of me in fear, terror and the respect accorded to tyrants, for that's the only respect I'll ever have. But I'll get it. I swear it in Shabranigdo and Ceipheed's Names, people of this continent will know my name. It will be known in history forever!" her eyes glowed fiercely, and the man under her moaned more.  
  
Fezra took a deep breath. Her friend had lost it. She couldn't quite grasp it, but what she said was clear. It was madness, and had to be stopped here and now. "Berwen...we can't let you do this." she said with a pang, gathering her magic. Her friend - former friend, it seemed sadly - looked unsurprised, but actually smiled.  
  
"I know you can't Fez." she said, and for one moment she saw her old friend in the fearsome visage. Then the new Berwen was back. "But we won't fight today. Oh no. I will decide when we fight next, Fezra! And to make certain you don't follow me, I have only to say that this structure is weakened, and that a simple shake should bring it down. Earth Below Me, Submit To My Will! Stone Spiker!!! she shouted, hitting the ground. The room immediately started to fall apart, the walls trembling. Spikes of rock sprang everywhere, shattering the keep, always stronger. A rumble was heard, and they all knew it was falling.  
  
Fezra was grabbed by Marcus and hauled behind, but she did steal a last glance at her friend before hurrying out. Berwen was looking at her almost gently, and expectantly. "Until we meet again, Fez!" she crowed.  
  
And then dust and stone barred each other from sight, and Fezra fled, mind astray and lost.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Zasthla was one who had fought in many battles for many years. Although she had met more than her match in people like Kalarus or Loerik, she knew she was much above the average too. Her skill and experience had made her intimately knowledgeable about the fact that magic was sometimes used, and to the kind of effects this or that spell would have on walls, barricades, or some sort of fortification. Which was why her ears perked up as the rumbling started distantly.  
  
Experience told her what she needed to know incredibly quickly. Stone Spiker, or at least some high-level Earth elemental spell. Cast in the very midst of a castle! She had seen it done once, two years before, when an Elmekian sorcerer had managed to get inside a Lumerian fort she and four hundred other were ordered to defend. The mage had buried all but sixty survivors into the rubble.  
  
This explained why she began to feel extremely fidgety even as she stood in the midst of slain enemies. Prince Philionel, however, had obviously never seen magic used suicidally before, for he looked around, not nearly as worried as he should be feeling.  
  
"What in the world?!" he exclaimed, "What possible madness could this be now?!" he seemed more wondering than anything else.  
  
Years of mercenary work quickly told Zashtla what it had told her two years back. "Run." she snapped, sheathing her blade quickly.  
  
He blinked at that. "What?"  
  
"You HEARD me, Prince!! Move your ass. We gotta go NOW!!" she said in a fit of temper. She didn't wait to see if he got her warning straight. Instead she turned on her heels as swiftly as she could and sped, retracing the steps the battle had taken them. She heard Phil move about behind her, and for a while he fell away. Then she heard his heavy, quick steps as he returned, catching up with her. She looked back a moment.  
  
She nearly groaned when she saw the two soldiers. Phil had slung one on each broad shoulder, and seemed to be carrying them easily enough despite the fatigue he must have felt and the extra weight they were. She narrowed her eyes by force of habit when she saw this, and it didn't go unnoticed. He glared right back.  
  
"This place, I assume, is falling down on our ears, right?" he said sharply.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then I'll save whom I kind. It is the right thing to do."  
  
She humphed. What an idealistic fool. "Its your loss if they slow you down and you die." she remarked coldly. She turned back to watch her step, but she felt his self-righteous disapproval from behind. So be it. She supposed it was the part that made him more charming than he seemed at first sight, but she wasn't about to agree with Phil's policies on justice and right. They sped along the dead and the battle-scarred corridors.  
  
They hadn't gone very far towards the exit, stomping, clinking and running, when they ran into someone. She stiffened and instinctively reached for her blade before she realized that she recognized the persons. Loerik had also stiffened and relaxed in quick succession, and he was also holding a person. However, as that person was Hallia - and knowing that Loerik would cut off his sword arm rather than leave her behind - she didn't find fault in that action, as she'd found with Phil.  
  
"Are you two alright?" she asked quickly, then judiciously added "You seen any of the others?"  
  
Loerik nodded quickly, but it was Hallia who answered. "I'll be fine...just too tired to run too fast. Fezra and Marcus went ahead to Dallomir's room. We don't know about the others." she explained the battle they'd fought quickly, until Phil interrupted.  
  
"It grieves me to be the one to say this," he muttered "But is it just me or are the walls starting to crack?" They all followed his gaze to inspect the walls. Sure enough, there were cracks showing in the old stone, and the mortar was starting to fall messily. The rumbling grew, and the ground itself seemed to shake suddenly.  
  
"We don't have much time! Lets go!" she hollered, only to see Loerik already speeding away towards the hole Marcus had blown. She followed, Phil on her heels. She worried about the others, but she would be unable to do anything if she was crushed herself.  
  
They went some way, and Phil cursed as the weight of the two soldiers started to drag him down. He started to puff harder, his abnormal strength finally strained under the heavy weight of flesh, bone and armour. She bit back an order to leave the two soldiers, knowing it would only earn her a deadly glare. She muttered a curse: sometimes her friends seemed to have no sense at all, no matter how skilled they were.  
  
However, she knew she was only ranting because she felt a little guilty not to be able to share Phil's ideals, or even Hallia's benevolent - and more reasonable - philosophy. She was an harder person, and it didn't always please her.  
  
Such thoughts were driven from her mind as someone else emerged ahead of one of the other passageways. They were a little way off, so there was no surprise involved before she recognized them. Lionel and Narie were running towards the hole as well, and the man seemed to be dragging the priestess. Narie's own movements were sluggish, as if belonging to a slow golem following instructions. Zashtla couldn't help but frown at the sight. Something was wrong there.  
  
"Hey, Lionel, Narie!" she called "Wait up!!"  
  
The apprentice stopped suddenly, looking in their direction, and Narie actually sped into him, nearly bowling him over. As they reached, Lionel was helping steady her, and was murmuring words to her. At the sight, Hallia gasped, struggling in Loerik's grip, and she felt both men stiffen with shock as well. She didn't feel much better herself.  
  
Narie no longer looked like the woman who had given a brave facade to them all. Tears were streaming out of her eyes, and she clung to Lionel, looking lost and broken. It felt like seeing her after Kalarus had raped her months ago, only even worse. Her eyes had lost all lights.  
  
Loerik was the first who found his voice. "What in Ceipheed's name happened?!?" he asked.  
  
And Lionel only looked at him with grim eyes. "I don't think you'll believe me right now. Let's go!" he stated as he urged the broken young woman along.  
  
Having no choice - and seeing the point as pieces of stone and marble started to fall - they ran after him. They had reached the hole when they heard a sound behind them. Turning, Zasthla saw the two missing members of the team. Both looked weary and wounded - as all of them did - and both were speeding along on a flying spell, swaying between the falling rocks. They reached the others just outside the fortress-like, multi-towered place.  
  
They didn't waste time on words this time, as the structure started to buckle in on itself. Instead both sorcerers landed and ran away with them, farther along the path they'd taken to get there in the first place. Finally, a ways later, Phil groaned, letting go of the enemy soldiers he'd saved and falling on his knees. Panting, Loerik let his new wife down to the ground as they all turned to look at Dallomir's place as it fell to pieces, shivering, towers falling and crashing, until the noise finally died down as the mighty structure was left as nothing more than a pile of rubble and ghosts.  
  
"Its over, it appears." Phil panted, his entire body shaking. His relief was evident. Loerik's shoulders sagged, and Hallia hurried to look Narie over, her face worried. Zasthla, however, saw the grim look Marcus gave Fezra, and the troubled one with which the sorceress answered him. For some reason, this cut and killed Zasthla's own sense of tired victory.  
  
"What's going on, you two?" she asked gently, not wanting to disturb the others. They looked at her, and then exchanged that look - that frightening look - once more. Finally, Marcus gave her a level look.  
  
"Its a story better told later." he said wearily. "Lets just say...that we might later find Dallomir wasn't much of an enemy next to the one we'll face."  
  
And try as she might, she never managed to get more out of them for two entire days.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Far from the exhausted group of adventurers, a whirlwind of black energy entered the Material Plane, quickly shaping itself into the form it had taken for well over a millennia. The being - powerful even by the measure of the few peers and superiors he had - didn't however spare the small group more than a passing thought. Instead, it looked towards the rubble, a faint smile upon a face, which seemed ever-relaxed.  
  
It took a strong effort to pick up anything - which told him that whatever moved, it happened to have quite a bit of magical strength. Once he had it identified, he followed it, the being's senses seeing through the dust as the object of his attention picked its way through the pile of broken stones which had until recently been a magical haven.  
  
And then, he lost it in a flare of magic. Teleportation most likely. Which, in itself, could only mean one thing...  
  
Unable to repress it, the being brushed one hand through his purple hair, his smile turning into a happy grin.  
  
"Humans." he mused joyfully. "You can say a lot about them. But in the end, one thing's certain: things never get dull around them."  
  
And with wink towards the unwitting heroes he'd helped more than once, Xellos vanished back to his home in a puff of magical energy.  
  
___________________________________________ 


	17. Epilogue

I do not intend to let the world forget. My name shall be known forever, even as I die! People will whisper it in fear in the darkness. Children will cower; men shiver, and never shall Lei Magnus be a name treated with anything else than respect!  
  
- Lei Magnus, facing the First Knights for the final time  
  
Anger begins one's fall to darkness. But more than anything else, it is pride that sustains it. When is one damned? I would say it is when he no longer fears himself, and what he may do.  
  
- Rezo the Red Priest, Philosophy of Magic, 966 AR   
  
Epilogue   
  
  
  
The Grand Sailune Cathedral was a monstrous cavern, Fezra Inverse decided. A monstrous cavern as that the room inside was so large the ceiling was nearly lost to the eyesight, and that the sides were too far for comfort. Of course, there were major differences. After all, no cavern she knew ever had a floor made of marble and rich carpets. No cavern ever had majestic, carved and painted pillars to support a ceiling of excellent, painted stone. And she doubted that, save from a dragon's hoard, that she would ever find a cave with so much gold and silver and precious objects in it.  
  
The stonework was excellently preserved, but obviously old. Phil had explained, between nervous fits and too much grumbling, that some parts still belonged to the chapel Sai Lune had built to minister his teachings of Ceipheed. Then considered a saint already, the preserved stone where Sai Lune had stood could only accept the highest of the Ceipheedian faith. It was Archbishop Venkin, the leader of the Sailunean priest, who presided over this important, traditional event.  
  
The old man was now babbling in old Sailunean, waving his hands this way and that and looking all-important. It was all she could do to stand still with the myriad of people. Religion was all well and good, she supposed, but every sorcerous order scoffed at it, and she supposed some of her old teachings had stuck with her.  
  
"At least they could offer some food. Wouldn't mind a bite right now, with that old geezer mumbling along." she hissed so low that only Zashtla and Marcus, who were nearest her, heard. The swordswoman frowned as the sorcerer grinned and nodded.  
  
"Have a care, Fezra." Zasthla returned. "I take religion quite seriously. And I heard it is quite dangerous to openly ridicule the teachings of a god in the middle of one of its most favoured places of worship."  
  
"Well I don't think that Ceipheed came and took his sweet little time and bore the people to death with a mumbling old guy."  
  
"This is simply the Prayer of Cleansing. And if you think this is dull, try living it in that robe here! It's been itching me for an hour! I hate it."  
  
Fezra grinned. "But frills go so well with you."  
  
"Fez, if you say that again, I swear that, holy place or NOT -"  
  
"Hey you two. Knock it off, will ya? Its beginning." Marcus cut the conversation before it became ugly swiftly.  
  
The Archbishop has indeed topped muttering and had raised his staff. "May those who would wish union under the Light of Ceipheed come to His Altar."  
  
At once, the doors fifty or so meters to each side of the altar opened, and out stepped the Heir to the Crown of Sailune and his bride-to-be. Being on the right side of the altar, Fezra and the others were able to spy Valmatia Ser Elmekun as she walked.  
  
She looked queenly, Fezra had to admit. Tall, straight, proud, and decidedly beautiful, with luxuriant, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, wearing a wedding gown of white trimmed with silver and gems and probably worth the price of a small village, who wouldn't think so? And she had the face one would see in the romantic books, and the figure to go with it. Fezra wondered how fate could put someone so beautiful with someone who looked like a humanized ogre.  
  
She winced. That wasn't fait and she knew it. True, Phil wasn't handsome - far from the term, really you bet - but he had good manners, a very strong sense of justice - TOO strong, in Fezra's opinion - and a heart of pure gold. For all of his quirks and speeches, he was a good man, and would probably take care of Valmatia well, in his own way. The problem was, how would she take his peculiar spirit, his tendency to go out and solve the problems directly? She wasn't sure of that.  
  
One thing was certain in all of this, however: Phil had gained the status of friend in her head, and if Valmatia decided to play a bitch role, Fezra intended to screw her head right. She wouldn't let a friend be unhappy. She wouldn't take them for granted.  
  
She'd never let a friend down as she had let Berwen down.  
  
She felt as if tears were coming to her eyes again. Berwen. Her friend for so many years, now transformed into a powerful creature forbidden for a millennia. A fiend, turned malevolent by bitterness, loneliness, and misplaced hate. It had taken a week before she could speak of the encounter with the others, and in the seven weeks since then, the guilt had continued to rankle her. She had failed. She had let them transform Berwen into something so vile no one would ever want her near.  
  
"Fezra, are you alright?" Marcus asked worriedly, and she forced herself to wrench her thoughts back to the wedding. This was Phil's big day, after all. She wasn't about to ruin it. She thus nodded at him and returned her attention to what was happening at the altar.  
  
Phil - resplendent in a princely uniform - had walked to the altar as well and stood facing his almost-wife. The priest was talking. "Philionel Di Sailune, Proud Heir to the Crown of Sailune, descendant in fifty-five generations to Sai Lune the Holy, do you accept this union in your Heart, your Mind, your Soul, under Ceipheed's Guiding light?"  
  
Philionel's voice was softer than usual, but held firm. "I accept it, under Ceipheed's Light."  
  
The Archbishop, in his old voice, repeated his question. Valmatia was less prompt than her husband, and looked at her husband-to-be carefully, as if gauging him. What was she thinking? Would she turn away from the pledge, as was her right? If she did, she might start something she wouldn't be prepared to deal with, Fezra swore to herself.  
  
However, after a moment in which the tension seemed to reach a crescendo, she took a deep breath and said "I accept it, under Ceipheed's Light."  
  
It seemed as if the room breathed a full - if silent - sight of relief, for the tension let out at once. The old priest then intoned. "By the Light of Ceipheed, and by the Truth of Sailune's Founder, I deem them united in the Light!"  
  
There were other elements as well, following that pronouncement. The exchange of token. Then the words of bonding between the two mates, and then, because they were both nobles of the highest standing, recognition from the King himself. These were details. Valmatia had accepted to be with Phil for life the moment she had accepted the pledge. Nothing could break it save death.  
  
She was losing herself in her dark thoughts again, when everyone rose as the King came to the couple solemnly and put a hand on theirs. He then turned slowly. "Citizens, my people and fellow Sailuneans, I present to you Philionel and Valmatia Di Sailune, Heir to the Throne and Royal Consort!"  
  
The room immediately erupted into applause - a vibrant, real applause, she realized. Everyone, she knew, liked Valmatia. And although the higher blood didn't like Phil, they would be fools to shun the one who would one day be their King. Under the applause and effusions, both walked away and out of the cathedral, to be welcomed by the roar of the common folk gathered outside. Although she wasn't present, she knew that the roar was meant for Phil, whom the people loved dearly. She held on to the joy she felt for them, chasing away the guilt, and took Marcus's arm.  
  
"I'm going east as soon as this is over. Want to come? We'll trek along with Loerik and Hallia for a bit, and then turn north. How does that sound?"  
  
He didn't hesitate. "You need to ask?" he said lightly.  
  
No, she realized. She didn't. Marcus would follow her wherever she went, she was sure. But for some reason, it helped ease the pain, seeing him smile, having him with her. Yes, it was probably time to make things clear between them. But not quite yet. For now, holding him and walking beside him was fulfilling enough.  
  
And if she were lucky, she wouldn't think of Berwen too much. Of her rage, of her words...  
  
And, most frightening of all, the cold promise she had made to Fezra.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Life was good!  
  
Loerik knew that he shouldn't be feeling THIS good. Not after he'd heard what happened from Fezra's mouth, not when they knew that their first adventure hadn't ended successfully after all. Now Berwen - who had been a comrade if not a friend - had been transformed into something very dangerous, with the matching intention to use that power. It was like an echo to Lei Magnus' dark legacy come to life. He wasn't a quick thinker outside the battlefield, but he had enough wits to see the dangers in the long run.  
  
It wasn't something that should make a man's heart cheerful.  
  
But that was exactly what he felt as he walked through the depth of an Elmekian forest he knew well with the woman his heart belonged to.  
  
The green-haired priestess, who had shed her usual garb when he had told her the walk might be a bit complex, tossed her head from side to side as she looked about in alarmed bemusement. "Are sure we're not lost? I see trees upon trees everywhere I look!"  
  
"We're the right way, don't worry."  
  
"And how can you tell, if I might ask?"  
  
"Its harder to explain than it seems." he grinned "'Sides, you're not an elf. You wouldn't understand."  
  
It made her eyebrows tick playfully. "High and mighty, aren't we? Especially for a humanized half-elf!"  
  
He shrugged. He wasn't lying, however: explaining elven magic to a human would take some doing. He didn't think anyone but the highest sorcerers - such as Rezo the Red Priest, or any very cultured archmage - could make heads or tail of it. How was he supposed to tell that his elven blood allowed him to see shimmering on some trees, telling him the way?   
  
He couldn't. No more than he had ever been able to make his brother understand why he'd chosen his human heritage, with its violence and short-lived nature. He only knew that by doing so, he had met and fallen in love with Hallia. If only because of that, he knew that his choice had been worthwhile. His father, who had fallen in love with an elf and chosen elven life - the ONLY human ever to do so in nearly four hundred years - might understand better, but not completely.  
  
It didn't matter in the end. He felt complete with her, and that was the end of it.  
  
"Three days here....I wonder if humans even saw this place?" she asked as she followed him through what certainly didn't seem like a path to her but was to him.  
  
"No human comes here. It's far from any hunting or woodcutting grounds. That's the whole point, I suppose. The elves always put their portals where humans won't start playing with it. Can you imagine Fez finding one?" he laughed at the very image, and after a moment she laughed with him.  
  
"Yes, I can see her playing with it alright, until she managed to open it. And then the elves would have a greedy human sorceress on their hands." she paused "And a sorcerer too."  
  
He didn't what she meant. Marcus and Fezra had turned north a week ago, and Fezra had said that the red-haired man could tag along - if he wanted. What no one could miss was the fact that she WANTED him to come along. Hallia had bet that by the time they met again, they might be much closer than friends, and Loerik hadn't dared take the bet.  
  
He supposed things had settled down, beyond the pall of their failure and the possible pain Berwen could become. Him with Hallia, Marcus and Fezra well on their way there, Phil back in his castle, having taken Zashtla in as a bodyguard. That last part had been strange, almost as if it was to test his own strength of will. The crown prince, as honourable as he was, could decidedly be strange.  
  
He finally arrived at the clearing, and gave a sigh as he saw the rock pile collected nearby. "Good, good. Its still intact since last year." he said with a definite smile. Hallia looked at him in curiosity, then comprehension blossomed.  
  
"You're saying you put something under the rock."  
  
"Lots of somethings. Let me show you."  
  
He walked to the pile of rocks, and scattered the smaller ones until he came to a large, flat one. He bent, strained as hard as he could, and slowly pushed it away revealing a dark recess. It was something he knew well, having worked to create it over two years ago. He put his hand in and began to draw out the contents of the cavity.  
  
It was amusing to see Hallia's eyes as he drew off half a dozen large bags, and finally a very large one. He opened one, and silver pieces flowed out. He then opened the largest one to show that this one contained nothing less than gold and jewels. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting her reaction.  
  
It came slowly, after she had spent a few moments gawking at the money. "L-Loerik...this is a lot of money. A LOT. H-how?"  
  
"The silver? My wages in part, and the elves mostly." he knew his tone had turned bitter, but that was the way it was with him when he was reminded of his banishment. "That was their way of making things easier for me, I think - giving me silver, buying off their shame. The gold...well, I cleared out a bandit gang two years back, and the townsfolk let me keep a tenth of what I found. Turns out that band was wealthy enough."  
  
"But why did you keep all...all this?" she asked, her eyes still disbelieving.  
  
He shrugged. "Dunno. Making sure maybe, in case I was wounded and couldn't fight. But right now...I know what I want to buy with some of that." he couldn't help but grin "A house for you and me!"  
  
She blinked, taking this in, but before she could respond, he had crossed to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. "I want that. I really do. A house where we'll be happy, where we'll be able to, you know, have kids. I really want to have kids. I don't know what kind of a dad I'd make - I'm a mercenary, after all - but I want to try it. I want to do this with you."  
  
Hallia looked at him gently. "How long did it take you to make that speech?" she asked, and he flushed. So it did sound a bit rushed. Darn.  
  
"Errr....well..." he fumbled, trying to force his slow mind to cough something out. He didn't have a long time for it, however, as she took hold of him and kissed him, completely scattering any response he might have made.  
  
She looked at him with the sincere affection she had shown only he, gently caressing his neck, before she broke the kiss. "Thank you. I know you meant what you said. And I want to try it too. I want your children. Just come here and let me show you the little speech I've prepared..."  
  
As it was, her speech didn't involve many words. Only a few, repeated many times. It was more enjoyable than his own however, and he found out that, of the two, she certainly had the more imagination! If any elves had come and found them at that time, it would probably have suffocated them from the sheer shock and indignation. Not that either would have cared about it much.  
  
They were, however, pretty much alright by the time the gate opened. Their hair was a bit ruffled, and he had a red mark on his neck, but otherwise no one could know of their little discussion. No one, of course, except Mellyroon, his dear elven mother. One look as she came out, and amusement started to shine in her eyes. "I hope we didn't interrupt anything." she said after they had hugged their son, and Rowdy looked at her, confused.  
  
Smiling, Loerik took Hallia's hand and kissed her, turning then to his knowing mother and suddenly comprehending father. "Mom, dad. This is Hallia, my wife." he said joyfully.  
  
Who cared about Berwen, about Lei Magnus, about the future? This was a great day to be alive, and to Loerik, that was that!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The man didn't even have the time to scream, as Kalarus's blade cut through his helm, head, and nearly split his body in two. Blood fountained, covering the warrior who was already drenched in it, and the corpse toppled backward. Around him, the few remaining Lumerian loyalists fell back, looking at him with a mixture of awe, hatred and, most of all, fear.  
  
This was a usual sight for Kalarus. Ever since he had been a young man, he had shown an unusual ability at swordsmanship, and had used it to kill as much as he could. He had become a feared mercenary very quickly, eventually becoming part of the best mercenary band in the Elmekian Empire.  
  
What was less usual was having his own allies giving him a wide berth as well. Ever since he'd come back to the mercenary business, it had become harder for him. Not because of his skills - they were still as formidable as they ever were. Rather, it was that he didn't care about other mercenaries anymore. They were nothing, nothing compared to the burning need to kill, ever present, surging forward from the cauldron that was his rage.   
  
He looked at them. With one, glaring eye. The other was forever closed, the handiwork of the young punk who had lucked out too many times for it to be natural. It was a ever-present remainder, one which fuelled the dark feelings within him, which had driven him to fight harder than before, trying to surpass what he'd gleaned, to find a way to make his skill match the - the LUCK his younger opponent possessed.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked the nervous mercenaries around him "Don't wanna help? Fine with me. Don't need no help, I tell ya!"  
  
Five men remained of the loyalist garrison. Five times, his blade sang a song of death and gore, filling his soul with an ecstasy, which failed to consume the darkness, the bitterness, and the hatred. He didn't even ask to get paid for his work, just turned around and left. The battle was over. That was all that mattered to him. All he wanted was to strengthen his skills, so that one day he would meet the lucky youth again, and make him pay. Yes, make him pay for it all!  
  
He touched the scarred side of his face, the side that still throbbed on rainy days. "Gabriev...I swear next time I'll hack your limbs I tell ya!" he growled as he walked away. It was only when the gutted fort was just a speck in the distance that he stopped under a tree to rest.  
  
He intended to continue fighting in order to increase his endurance and strength. But where? The war between Lumeria and Elmekia was over. The royal family had been slaughtered, its main cities razed or seized, its populace forced to submit to the Imperial Scepter. Only a few small holdouts still remained, but they would within the coming weeks. He supposed it meant that the Empire was victorious, but to Kalarus it was winded. The Emperor was out of most of his resources, and with keeping the Lumerian occupied and in line, he wouldn't have the strength to stage attacks for a good long while.  
  
Where else? Sailune and Zefilia both had a position of peace. Together, they put checks on ambitious rulers such as the ones in Kalmaart and Ralteague. Lyzeille used to be powerful, but a plague a decade ago had weakened it, and it had yet to truly recover. Dils was economically and militarily weak, the weakest of all the human nations...  
  
A vision of the pathetic Dilsean troops wafted through his mind, and he smirked darkly. "I tell ya, Dilsean are so weak, I'd be able to invade them by my own self, I tell ya..." he muttered.  
  
It was then that he realized, to his horror that someone was now near him.  
  
He kicked away from the tree he had been under, vaguely spying a shape next to him. Filled with adrenaline, he vaguely recognized a shape. 'A damn woman!' his mind exclaimed 'How did she get past me!?!'  
  
The thought never even took residence in Kalarus - all focused upon fighting. Still not seeing the target, not caring about anything except that it was there, it was a damn woman who'd dared surprised him and finally that it gave him a way to burn his rage a bit. His sword was out before he could think and he rushed forward, his blade going up and down in one perfect arc, aimed at the bitch's neck. She was his!  
  
He didn't quite understand what happened to him. One moment he had been about to kill the female interloper, and the next he found himself flying backward on his back, thudding on the ground. Pain blossomed where his body hit, but he was used to ignoring it now, after Gabriev. 'Magic. It was magic. Strong. And did she cast it? I didn't see, when did she do it?'  
  
He rose on his feet at once, grasping his blade, looking at his opponent for the first time. That was what definitely stopped him an instant.   
  
He had thought that he was facing a woman, a thief probably, and then a female sorcerer. But although the woman looked human in shape, there were many different items, which came to his sole remaining arm. She was dressed in an opulent suit of gold, reds and greens, looking, with a deep - nearly black - cape draped over one shoulder. But that wasn't what stopped him. It was, rather, her skin, metallic and reddish, and her hair, somewhat spiky and as red as her cloak.  
  
One thought struck him: this ain't no human bitch.  
  
The demonic woman looked at him with amusement, her visible arm on her hip. "Not bad. Not bad at all, I'd say. I know only a handful of people who could react faster." she said critically, and he almost shivered at the intense cold of her voice. He had a new thought: this bitch is dangerous, and she knows it. "Your attack was perfect, although there never was any hope you could do me any damage, little man."  
  
"Watch yer MOUTH!!" he growled without thinking.  
  
"Why should I? It is a truth that you cannot hurt me. Now, Loerik Gabriev, with the blade he has, probably would be a harder opponent..."  
  
He didn't hear the rest, only rushed forward, sword ready. His mind was fire. How DARE she look down on him?!? How DARE she say Gabriev, that lucky RUNT, could best him? How DARE she?!?!?!?!?!? She didn't move as he struck, this time horizontally, as mightily as he could. He'd see if his steel couldn't dent that pretty little metal neck there!  
  
The demon caught the blade with her forearm, stopping it as effectively as a thick iron pole would, and forced him backward with a few muttered words. Definitely magic there. She didn't look surprised or angry. She looked pleased. Very much so.  
  
"You hate Loerik Gabriev, don't you Kalarus? I can understand it well. I, too, hate him. I hate them all. Marcus, Philionel, Loerik, Hallia, Zasthla, Lionel...and especially Fezra. All of them." her eyes seemed to actually catch fire "Fezra attempted to destroy me, Loerik tried to kill you. Both failed. And we can make them pay, if we are patient and do things right."  
  
"I don't care about your blather. All I want is to kill Gabriev, I tell ya! And for that I need to fight!"  
  
"You want to fight, I want to rule. I am certain I can help you. I can give you means to make you stronger. And I will let you fight as much as you wish, as long as you follow my plan."  
  
Kalarus listened. There was something appealing in the way she said what she wanted to do. However, he rankled at having a woman give him orders, even a demonic one. Still, if she could make him strong enough to crush Loerik...if she could...  
  
"And what's that plan you got?" he asked, trying to mask his interest and failing.   
  
She gave him a smile - a smile that was too cold to be comforting. "I heard what you said about Dils. It's the right first step. But I want more. Much, much more. I intend to create an Empire whose memory will last long after I am gone. You can be part of it, you can fight for it. And one day, those we hate will try to stop us. They'll be drawn to it like moths to a flame." she thrust her open hand forward. "Do you want to be part of it?"  
  
A part of him reeling, the idea of fighting and revenge upon Gabriev too strong to resist. He hesitated, and then took the proffered hand. "Make me strong, and I'll fight your little war, I tell ya."  
  
"And I tell you, you will be strong. And feared." Power passed through her and into him. And within a moment, the patch of conquered Lumerian soil was free of presence. All except a presence, far off, protected by powerful warding spells. An entity that looked like a human priest with violet hair and a happy smile.  
  
"This will be fun." Xellos said, and then he, too, was gone.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
In a realm beyond the Mortal Plane, two being watched glimpsed the passing events. Their attention wasn't fixed on those only - their powers allowed for much more. But they were interested nonetheless. Eventually, one being looked at the other.   
  
"It appears that your little drama is over, my friend. The humans' adventure is over."  
  
"Over? I daresay not. This was but the opening phase, the beginning of the piece. The pièce de résistance, as they say, will come soon enough. It will be interesting to watch these humans, as a former comrades takes them places they never intended to go."  
  
"Their fate?"  
  
"Their fears, my old friend. Their fears."  
  
END OF BOOK ONE 


End file.
